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<6 














CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 

UNA L. SILBERRAD 










CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S 
DAUGHTER 


By 

UNA L. SILBERRAD 

AUTHOR OF “SUCCESS,” “KEREN 
OF LOWBOLE," ETC. 


NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 

Publishers in America for H odder iff Stoughton 


.S s% z 


Copyright, 1914 

By George H. Doran Company 



MAR 19 1914 


r /,'i^r 

©CI.A362974 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Violet Jane 9 

II Mrs. White and Mrs. Percy Kingston 35 

III Maud 59 

IV Violet 81 

V Violet’s Birthday 99 

VI Violet’s Future 118 

VII The Aunts 134 

VIII Aunt Maud 153 

IX Violet Grown Up 163 

X Graham Burbidge 178 

XI Maud Beneficent 195 

XII Maud at Home 208 

XIII Violet in Town 224 

XIV Graham Burbidge Again 252 

XV Violet in Trouble 270 

XVI The Cost of Maud 286 

XVII Maud Goes Home— So Does Violet 299 




































■ 














































































































































CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 



CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S 
DAUGHTER 


CHAPTER I 
VIOLET JANE 

CAM BAILEY remade the acquaintance of Violet Jane 
^ Yarborough the spring that he came back to England. 
He had been away four years, in an obscure British holding 
in Central Africa; one of those places for which mails 
leave “ at intervals ” with no very definite guarantee of 
how long they will take to arrive. 

Things change in four years; people change and marry 
and die. None of Sam's immediate relatives had died, 
but his brother had married and gone to live in Edinburgh, 
and his sister was engaged to a man in the Indian Civil 
Service. Neither of the two met him on his arrival in 
London, the one because he was in Edinburgh, the other 
because she was with her father, who was laid up with the 
gout at Bath. Sam knew about the gout, having had let- 
ters at Marseilles, so he was not disappointed at seeing no 
one — he was a cheerful person, not often or easily disap- 
pointed. Besides which, was not he back in England after 
four years' absence, back in London? Was he not driving 
in a hansom, hearing the sound of the traffic, seeing the 
streets? It was dusk when he left Charing Cross, the 
streets all lighted, the pavements glittering from the last 
squall of rain, the water dripping from the cape of the 
policeman who controlled the traffic. He could have 


10 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


shaken hands with the policeman though he did hold up 
his cab, just to congratulate them both on being there, and 
because the cabman made the old familiar comments at 
being held up. He purposely paid a meagre fare when 
he discharged the cab so as to hear the familiar comments 
over again, and afterwards extravagantly overpaid the man 
because he said what had been said dozens of times before. 

Sam chd not go on to Bath that evening; for one reason, 
it was late to do so comfortably; for another, he thought 
he would report himself at the Colonial Office to-morrow 
before he left town. He would go to the Colonial Office 
by a roundabout way, and come back another; walk about 
the streets where people, who had not come back from 
Central Africa, walked, and did not really know they were 
in London ; not know it, and feel it, and realize it, as one 
who had come back did. 

But London had changed; the next morning when he 
set out on the walk he saw it ; it had changed as everything, 
cities, men, all that has vitality, must change. He found 
buildings which had been familiar gone here and there; a 
house pulled down, a shop gone, a street wider — so much 
wider that for the moment he felt a stranger in it. There 
was a different note in the voice of the streets, too, and 
in the smell of them; a difference in the traffic, in the 
shape of the women, the slang of the boys. Even Punch 
and the Weekly Edition of the Times do not keep an exile 
quite in touch with all the small things, unnoticed by those 
who live with them and help to bring them about, but 
sharply perceived by the returned. Also there are places 
where Punch and the Weekly Edition of the Times are not 
delivered with the greatest regularity. Sam’s late place 
of residence was one of these, and for a little he felt a 
trifle lonely and astray in the strange town. 

But coming back from the Colonial Office he felt better; 
speech with his kind, even Official kind, had brought him 


VIOLET JANE 


11 


again in touch with humanity and the life of the moment: 
someone had told him the prospects of the Boat Race, and 
someone else had anathematized the party then in power. 
Besides which, in the air was the thrill and the feel of an 
English March, and around the old hazy grey of London. 
Everything sober-toned, smoke softened, stately grey ; ex- 
cepting only the daffodils, piled yellow in the baskets of 
the flower-girls at street corners. 

There were daffodils in the orchard at Countershell, little 
wild ones that opened late in the cold East country; the 
wind nipped the fingers sometimes when one gathered them, 
and ruffled the hair — Maud’s hair of golden brown, Maud’s 
fingers, pink-tipped like unopened flower-buds. He had 
gathered daffodils with Maud at Countershell four years 
ago, and kept those she had given him two of the years. 
And Maud was married to someone else and the flowers 
were burnt. 

He turned away sharply, and so doing saw a girl looking 
wistfully at the flower-seller’s basket ; a shabby girl, feeling 
the small change in her jacket-pocket and weighing the 
daffodils against the claims of some more material need. 
He did not like to see anyone want anything: he bought 
the biggest bunch in the basket and offered them to the 
girl. 

“ Do take them,” he entreated, “ I want to buy something 
for somebody; I’m just home on leave.” 

He was an insignificant person, small and fair and very 
youthful-looking, girls seldom took him seriously and often 
overlooked him. This one glanced at him, then with a sur- 
prised “ Thank you ” took the flowers and hurried away, 
her attention on them, not on him. 

He looked after her, and just then someone smote him on 
the back. 

“ Sam! ” a voice cried and, turning, he saw Cuddy Yar- 
borough. 


12 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


'‘Sam!” Cuddy cried. “You back? This is rippin’! 
How long ? I say, though, do I interrupt ? ” — this with a 
glance at the retreating figure of the girl. 

“ Not you,” Sam assured him — “ I was only celebrating a 
funeral.” 

“ Whose funeral ? ” Cuddy asked — his was a literal mind, 
what there was of it. 

“ Romance,” Sam said solemnly, “ the ideal, the irrevoc- 
able past, etc.” 

Cuddy looked mystified. “ Gone in for poetry ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Never again ; I wrote some verses on the last but one 
governor — they met with appreciation, much appreciation in 
some quarters, but trouble arose. I believe the only copy 
of them now extant is in the archives of the Colonial Office, 
probably fastened to copies of the official correspondence 
which blighted their young life. It was one of the many 
occasions when my efforts did not meet with full approval.” 

“ What a chap you are ! ” Cuddy said, affectionately 
drawing his arm through his. “ You haven’t altered 
much ! ” 

“ Nor you,” Sam told him. 

Cuddy had not altered much. It was the same big, loose 
figure, the same good-tempered, muffin-like face, round, 
rather prominent eyes, and weak mouth. He was some 
years older than Sam, and, on account of his bulk, looked a 
good many more. He had aged a little in the past four 
years ; there were a few threads of grey in his sandy hair, 
and there was a greater soberness in both his dress and 
mien. He had lost his wife a year ago. Sam, remember- 
ing it, asked after the child, how she was, and where. 

“Where?” Cuddy said. “With me, of course; or, 
rather, with the aunts at the moment — Vie’s sisters, you 
know. They’ve got her out buying clothes. They wouldn’t 
have me, so I thought I’d better attend to some business.” 


VIOLET JANE 


13 


Cuddy’s business had always been of the kind that could 
be attended to or neglected as occasion and his memory 
served. It did not appear to engross him now as he fell 
into step with Sam, talking about his daughter and forget- 
ting everything else. 

“ She’s a ripper ! ” he said. “ Come and see her.” 

Sam’s previous acquaintance with the daughter had not 
been very intimate, although she was six years old when 
he left England. Somehow or other, during the life of 
Cuddy’s wife he had not seen such a great deal of him; 
none of Cuddy’s pre-marriage friends had. The Yarbor- 
ough family had not approved the marriage, which took 
place when Cuddy was very young — little more than one- 
and-twenty — not old enough, it was generally held, to 
know his own mind in such matters. The Yarboroughs 
never really liked the wife, nor she them. They had made 
the best of it and been pleasant to her, but they and she 
had seldom met, and Cuddy’s pre-marriage friends, notably 
those who were also Maud’s friends, had rather followed 
the family ; Sam less than the others ; his friendship dated 
too far back to be really broken by marriage. But even 
he had not seen so very much of Cuddy, although he was, 
rather oddly, the only one of the early friends Mrs. Cuddy 
approved. 

“ Vie would have been awfully glad to see you back,” 
Cuddy said now. “ She used to say, when she was ill, she’d 
like to see you again. What a jolly time we’d have had all 
together at Countershell if she were alive ! ” 

Sam, feeling a trifle contrite for previous remissness to 
the dead woman, acquiesced, even though “ a jolly time ” 
was not the idea one pre-eminently associated with Mrs. 
Cuthbert Yarborough. For the matter of that, he did not 
associate Countershell with her either. She had seldom 
been there in the time of his acquaintance with her and 
while old Mr. Yarborough was alive. 


14 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ We moved to Countershell two years back,” Cuddy said, 
“ when the guv’nor died. Vie declared we could manage, 
and we did; though, Lord knows! money was tight. 
Things were in a muddle, I can tell you, when the poor old 
chap pegged out — as big a muddle as mine when Vie mar- 
ried me ; but we got along. She’d got a head, Vie ! ” 

“ Who is at Countershell now ? ” Sam asked. “ Any- 
one?” 

“ Why, I am, of course,” Cuddy said, “ and Violet Jane. 
We’re only in town now to see the aunts — twice a year, my 
boy, we do it ! Lord, help us ! — and attend to business, and 
so on. We’re going back in a couple of days — so are you.” 

Sam promised that he would come — if not in the couple 
of days, then as soon as he could. 

“ Is your mother there ? ” he asked ; “ and Enid ? ” 

Cuddy shook his head. “ Abroad just now. They spent 
the last two winters abroad ; agrees with ’em better. They 
came down to me a while last summer, but the place don’t 
seem to suit them, not as it used.” 

It occurred to Sam that it might be Mrs. Cuthbert Yar- 
borough and her regime which did not suit them in her life- 
time, and the influence she had left behind her after her 
death. Still, it might not be the case. He remembered 
that neither Mrs. Yarborough nor Enid had been very ro- 
bust, and certainly the climate of Countershell was more 
bracing than genial. 

Cuddy had gone on to speak of Maud. “ Have you seen 
her?” he asked. “ Oh, I forgot, you’re only just home. 
Lassiter — you remember she married Lassiter two years 
back — he has inherited now. He’s Sir Edward ; they’re no 
end of bloods. I don’t see much of ’em myself. Vie and 
Maud never quite hit it somehow, and of course I’m too 
busy now; can’t get away and leave the kid. Maud’ll be 
no end pleased to see you.” 

“ I’m not so sure,” Sam said, and Cuddy opened his eyes. 


VIOLET JANE 


15 


Maud, the cousin who had been brought up with him and 
his sister like a daughter of the house, had always had his 
allegiance. He had fallen in love with her, of course, when 
she was about fifteen ; nearly every man did, sooner or 
later, from that age onwards — but the incident, and her 
mirthful reception of his suit, had made no difference to 
his admiration nor to their relationship. His marriage, 
and, later, hers, had set them apart in circumstance, but 
had not altered his feeling. He was of the loyal sort; not 
acutely intelligent, but the more, rather than the less, loyal 
on that account. 

“ It’s just bad luck that I don’t see much of her,” he 
explained, “ nothing else. Don’t run away with that idea. 
It isn’t side on her part, or anything of that sort. That’s 
not old Maud — rather not! Vie didn’t like her, it’s true; 
but then, she didn’t understand her. She’s a real good 
sort, always was, and always will be. She’d be pleased as 
anything to see an old pal, even if he came along in rags. 
She’ll be awfully hurt if you don’t look her up right away.” 

Sam had his own opinion about that. When two people 
have been — well, no, not engaged, he and Maud had never 
been engaged, there was not exactly even an understanding 
between them; not a real one. At all events, she had got 
engaged to someone else while he was away without any- 
thing more ceremonious than a notifying him of the fact 
after it was accomplished, rather as a piece of news which 
might interest him than as anything which nearly con- 
cerned him. She had married the someone else, too, almost 
before a return letter, had he sent one, could have reached 
her. He had not sent one, only cabled congratulations, so 
perhaps she did not know what he thought or how her act 
struck him. She had gifts for not knowing. 

“ She’s a wonderful person, Maud,” he said to Cuddy. 
And Cuddy acquiesced; then, catching sight of a clock, 
exclaimed : 


16 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“By Jove! I promised to meet Jane and the aunts at 
twelve. Come along, or we’ll be late ! ” 

Sam refused. He was going to Bath, he said, and must 
collect his baggage and be off to Paddington. 

“ What a swindle ! ” Cuddy cried. “ Still, there’ll be an 
aunt, or a couple of them, there, so I don’t know that it’d 
be much catch. Come down to Countershell, that’s the 
best thing. Come down as soon as you can and see us 
there.” 

Sam promised he would, and though he did not fix a day 
— he said he could not till he had seen his own people — he 
said it should be by the end of the month. 

And it was at the end of the month that he went to 
Countershell and remade the acquaintance of Violet Jane. 

It was on a Friday. It had often been on a Friday that 
he went to Countershell in the old days. Cuddy used to 
meet him at the station in pre-marriage times, when as a 
boy he came; later Jackson, the cross-eyed groom, did, or 
Maud ; the memorable times were when Maud did. Uncon- 
sciously he found himself looking for her on the afternoon 
when he went back. As the train slowed down at Den- 
ham, the nearest station to Countershell, he found himself 
looking for the first sight of her old tweed hat with the jay’s 
wing, showing over the wall from where she sat waiting in 
the dog-cart in the road below the station. He saw Cuddy 
in a town-going overcoat and a round hat too small for his 
large head. 

There were other and more subtle changes than that of 
Cuddy’s dress ; there was a difference in the way in which 
people treated him. The old porter, who greeted Sam ef- 
fusively, touched his cap respectfully to Cuddy now, as he 
used to old Mr. Yarborough, with no recollection of the 
more jocular salutation of earlier days. The jobmaster, 
who stopped them just as they drove away, did so to speak 
of some trivial business matter; not, as formerly, to give 


VIOLET JANE 


17 


the latest news from a training-stable or to make an appoint- 
ment in connection with the unexalted sport of ratting. 
Cuddy had increased in weight other than purely physical. 

He pointed out the site for the new cottage hospital as 
they passed it, saying he was on the committee. 

“ Not that I’m any good at that sort of thing,” he added 
ingenuously. “ I’m an awful mug at it ; but the old girl, 
Vie, I mean, liked to have me on those shows.” 

“ I’m a nailer at them,” Sam told him. “ I’ve only been 
on one; I don’t often light on a spot where there’s the 
wherewithal to make a committee, but I did once, and I was 
a great success. The rest — and they were hardened com- 
mittee men and women too — said they had the time of their 
lives. A little worm who wasn’t asked to be on did his best 
to make mischief, he hinted to the chairwoman that I was 
pulling her leg — such a leg! She was a fifteen-stunner.” 

“ There’re ladies on this blarmed concern,” Cuddy said. 
“If Vie was alive she could have been on instead of me ; 
she’d have been a sight more use and she’d have liked it 
too.” 

“ They mostly do, bless their hearts ! ” 

“Funny, isn’t it?” Cuddy said, then asked: “Who do 
you think I met just before we left town? Maud! Ran 
into her at the station ! She was up for a few days razzle 
without her man. She asked me to dine with her that 
night.” 

“ Did you?” 

“ Couldn’t. We were coming away here, else I would, 
you bet. She’s asked us to Grange Hall when she gets 
back.” 

“You and Violet?” 

“ Couldn’t go without the kid,” Cuddy said. 

From which it was to be imagined she had not been in 
the first invitation, but was included in Maud’s ready and 
generous way when she perceived it was wished. Cuddy 


18 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


was pleased about the invitation and very pleased to have 
seen Maud, and talked about her most of the rest of the 
drive. 

The drive to Countershell was through open country — 
white roads that wound between close-clipped hedges, 
plough-land and pasture rising in big sweeps to the grey 
sky, with here and there a few flint-built cottages and, 
more rarely, small dark woods in between the curves of the 
land. Half-way the road turned directly eastward and the 
wind met one, keen from the sea. It always met one there, 
and further on, beyond the crossway, one had the first sight 
of the river spreading into wide lake-like reaches. Duck 
rose as they sighted it, dark wings rising from the yellow 
sedges, the wedge-shaped flight against the sky. 

Sam drew in his breath. “ Lord ! But it’s good to be 
back ! ” he said, almost below his breath. 

Cuddy nodded. “ Not a bad old place,” he said, but his 
prominent eyes glistened as he said it. Countershell was 
to him all the kingdoms of the earth and the riches and 
the glory of them, though he was completely inarticulate 
about it. 

At the door of the house Violet Jane met them. She 
was supposed to be within that afternoon on account of a 
cold; but at the sound of her father’s halloo — a very loud 
one, given before he drew rein — she opened the door and 
came out to meet them. 

Cuddy sprang down at sight of her. “ And how’s Lady 
Jane? ” he cried— “ right as rain, clear in the brain, broken 
her chain ? ” 

He turned her round. “ Here’s Sam,” he said, turning 
her towards him, “ come to teach you manners and how to 
behave like a nice black lady of Timbuctoo.” 

Violet gave her hand. " I’m glad you’ve come,” she said 
gravely. 

She was rather a grave person, really older in some re- 


VIOLET JANE 


19 


spects than Cuddy, in spite of her age of ten years. A slim, 
fair creature with light hair and fine grey eyes in an other- 
wise plain face. She might take life rather seriously by- 
and-by. Indeed, even now life seemed a more serious af- 
fair at Countershell than it had been in the old days. 

They had tea in the drawing-room, Cuddy and Sam, with 
Violet Jane presiding. The round-ended room, which used 
to be the den, was the drawing-room now; a window-seat 
had been put in the round end ; there were green cushions 
on it and a shelf above, where stood a copper vase and 
some photographs, arranged as they had been by Mrs. 
Cuthbert Yarborough on her coming in two years ago. 
There were other things of her arranging in the drawing- 
room, and, in a less degree, in the rest of the house. They 
were not many nor expensive ; poor soul, she had had little 
to spend even on wall-papers and chair-covers! But they 
did not sort specially well with the old, which, it must be 
admitted, had few claims to beauty on their own account. 

In the old days it would not have been a drawing-room 
tea at Countershell; it would have been a whisky-and-soda, 
while old Mr. Yarborough showed his newest gun, and 
Maud sat by the fire and talked, and Enid poured tea from 
an earthenware teapot at a corner of the old school-table 
for anyone who wanted it. 

Violet poured tea to-day from a silver teapot somewhat 
too large for her small hands, and Cuddy handed cakes as 
decorously as a curate. It is true he upset half the con- 
tents of the plate at the end ; but as he said, there was not 
much in it by that time. 

“ What a clumsy boy you are ! ” Violet said with the af- 
fectionate reproof of an anxious mother as she got down to 
pick up the cakes. 

Cuddy helped, showing much penitence; afterwards he 
went obediently to the door when she said : “You had bet- 
ter let in Punch and Harrison.” 


20 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ They don’t come into the drawing-room,” she explained 
to Sam, “ except to clear up when daddy upsets things.” 

“ Vie didn’t like ’em in the drawing-room,” Cuddy added. 
“ They spoil things like the deuce, you know.” 

“ But it spoils them deucer to leave pieces on the carpet 
to be stepped on,” Violet said, “ so we made a new rule that 
they were to come in when daddy upset crumbs. They 
wait in the hall ready on drawing-room tea days.” 

They would seem to have been waiting now, for they 
came in as soon as the door was opened, and performed 
their office with great thoroughness, and with every appear- 
ance of being used to it. Afterwards they sat down on 
the white rug before the fire as if well used to that also. 
Later, Violet sat between them, and, after kissing both, pro- 
duced a diminutive work-bag and proceeded to sew a doll’s 
petticoat very attentively, until she discovered Harrison 
had taken a reel of cotton. At that the work was put down 
while she tried to take the reel from him, and, Cuddy com- 
ing to help, a somewhat uproarious game ensued. Early in 
it, however, she called a truce, so as to put several fragile 
things out of harm’s way. 

After a time Cuddy was called out to see a man about 
something ; men always came to see him about chance things 
at chance times, and he always saw them, which encouraged 
them to do it again with more reference to their conveni- 
ence than his. He went now, the dogs scampering after 
him in the hope that there would be other dogs with the 
man — there usually were. 

Left alone with Sam, Violet took a chair and began 
needlework again, oblivious of the state of her hands and 
cotton after the late game. 

“ Do you know my Aunt Maud ? ” she asked conversa- 
tionally. 

Sam said he did. 

“ Do you like her?” 


VIOLET JANE 


SI 


She looked up as she put the question, and for some 
reason Sam felt called upon to tell the truth. “ Well/' he 
said slowly, “ part of me does and part doesn’t.” 

She considered a moment, but fortunately did not put the 
question “ Which part ? ” to which he had rather laid him- 
self open. 

“ Aunt Maud has asked daddy to go and stay with her,” 
she announced. “ Do you think mother would have wanted 
him to go ? ” 

Sam had more than a suspicion that mother would not 
have wanted it at all, but he evaded the question. “ Aunt 
Maud has asked you to go too, hasn’t she?” he said. 
“ You’ll have a jolly good time, I expect.” 

The needle stuck in the work and Violet tugged at it. 
“ It’s very sticky,” she said, and rubbed it first on her stock- 
ing and then on the sole of her shoe. 

“ Do you think mother would have wanted daddy to go 
to Aunt Maud’s ? ” she said. 

“ Your mother did not know Aunt Maud very well,” Sam 
hedged. 

“ No,” Violet agreed. “ Do you think she would have 
wanted daddy to go to her ? ” 

Sam gave it up. “ Perhaps not,” he admitted, then 
added : “ Of course, if she had known, I mean, if she’d 
thought — of course, she’d have liked you to have a good 
time.” 

Violet sighed a sigh of relief. “ That’s all right,” she 
said, applying herself to her work again. 

“ It doesn’t seem to be coming through specially well,” 
Sam observed. 

“ The needle ? ” she said. “ No, it’s worse than ever.” 
She pulled it out and gave it another rub. “ I didn’t mean 
that was all right,” she said, frowning at it ; “I meant it 
was all right about Aunt Maud. We always try to do what 
mother would have liked; you have to when people are 


22 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


dead, much more than when they are alive to make you — 
that’s playing the game. If she’d have wanted us to go to 
Aunt Maud’s we should have had to.” 

“ But,” Sam urged, recalling Cuddy’s evident satisfaction 
with the invitation, “ she might have wanted you to go ; you 
don’t know. Cuddy thinks it’s all right, and he knows a 
deal more about what she would have liked than I do.” 

“ Does he ? ” Violet said, as one interested rather than 
impressed. “ I thought you knew most ; I should think you 
knew about most things.” 

“You flatter me!” Sam said. “I’m not used to these 
pleasing expressions from your sex; you’re positively the 
first lady who has ever thought my opinion worth anything 
on any subject, from marriage to macaroons. But — I re- 
gret to say it — you’ve picked a wrong ’un ; you’ve mistaken 
this time.” 

“ About Aunt Maud ? ” Violet inquired, ignoring all the 
rest with the embarrassing instinct for essentials which 
seemed to characterize her. “No, I don’t think so, I think 
you’re quite right ; I thought myself that very likely mother 
wouldn’t have wanted daddy to go to her. I’m glad you 
think so too.” 

“ But supposing daddy thinks different ? ” 

“ I shall have to explain to him.” 

And Sam, having had a taste of Violet Jane’s methods, 
fancied that Cuddy, never the most vertebrate creature, 
did not stand much chance. 

“ Don’t you want to go to Grange Hall ? ” he asked. . 

She shook her head. 

“ Why not?” 

“ Don’t know.” 

She bit off a length of cotton thoughtfully. “Aunt 
Maud’s very pretty,” she conceded after consideration — 
“ the beautifullest person I’ve seen ; and she feels nice, nice 
and soft and warm; and she laughs, and everyone’s glad 


VIOLET JANE 


when she's there ; but ” — she paused doubtfully — “ she for- 
gets, and she makes other people forget.” 

That was Maud! The words called her up — warmth 
and joy and laughter and forgetting: that was Maud! She 
was called up as if she had come back to Countershell. 

“ S. Bailey,” Sam said to himself a while later in the 
solitude of his own room — he had an incurable habit of 
addressing himself — “ S. Bailey, it strikes me you are by 
way of making a fool of yourself, a bigger one even than 
when you imagined that girl — that one of all those you or 
anyone else knew — was ever really likely to marry a mangy 
little chap like you ! Her kind heart went out to you when 
she was with you once upon a time, and she wanted what 
you wanted for a bit ; that’s what you built on. She mar- 
ried a man with a big body and a big income, a proper 
match for her; that’s what you howled about. Get over 
it. She isn’t here and can never be again. Don’t grizzle.” 

That evening, after Violet had gone to bed, Sam and 
Cuddy sat in the study. It was new to find a study at 
Countershell, where nobody had even studied anything, not 
even how to get his own way — everyone had always taken 
that there without thinking about it. But a study there 
was now, or a room which had been called so by Mrs. 
Cuthbert, and which retained the name and the sober-toned 
wall-paper of her choosing; otherwise, it must be admitted, 
little or nothing of her or of study remained. It was clearly 
the room most used by Cuddy and his daughter. The 
daughter’s dolls’-house stood in a comer, the state of per- 
manent spring-cleaning which maintained there to be seen 
through the windows; Cuddy’s shabby leather chair was 
pulled to the fireplace, the comer of the rug rolled up and 
caught in the castor by the frayed edge gnawed by the 
dogs. There were boots, very big and very little, behind 
the door, and cartridges and fishing-tackle on the desk 
among the papers — council notices and advertisements and 


24 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


company reports that Cuddy religiously kept with a dim 
idea of being business-like. And on the desk, just beyond 
the blotting-pad, on which father and daughter had put 
drawings reminiscent of Stone Age art, stood a silver- 
framed photograph of Mrs. Cuthbert Yarborough. 

It was probably a good portrait when it was taken some 
three years ago, but it looked out of date now. The hair, 
dressed in a style no longer the fashion, showed scanty 
and accentuated the pinchedness of the face ; the elaborate, 
high-collared dress revealed rather than concealed the nar- 
row, ungenerous figure ; and the face, under the fixed smile, 
showed bony and anxious. The photographer, in spite of 
his art, had contrived to make Mrs. Yarborough’s more than 
her age, and that was more than her husband’s, as Sam was 
aware. He was aware, as the Yarboroughs were, that 
she was some years older than her husband; also that she 
had married him, not he her. Though, on the last point, 
this must be said, in any affair in which Cuddy was con- 
cerned the other party must have taken the active part or 
there would have been no affair in which to be concerned. 
One other thing Sam knew, if the Yarboroughs did not — 
that she had loved her husband. That it was not, as usually 
said, for the sake of being married, or with some shadowy 
idea of improved position, that she had married Cuddy — an 
entirely ineligible parti in his own immediate circle, and far 
removed from the standards of the capable commercial 
people from whom she sprang. She had somehow done 
the unlikely thing — she had loved him; Sam knew it, and 
as his eyes went to the portrait that evening, he realized 
there was something pathetic in it. 

Cuddy, who was smoking comfortably in the shabby 
leather chair, followed the direction of his glance. 

“ Poor old Vie ! ” he said, looking at the unattractive pre- 
sentation regretfully. “ I wasn’t half good enough for her, 
not a quarter — I was a swine, no end of times I was.” 


VIOLET JANE 


25 


“ I guess we’re all that sometimes,” Sam said. 

Cuddy nodded. After a time he remarked, as if he had 
just discovered it: “But we’re not all married; that 
makes a difference, you know. 

“ Women are different,” he went on when Sam had ad- 
mitted the incontrovertible fact ; “ you’d be surprised how 
different. They care about little things no end. Vie did. 
She had a rotten time, take it all round; what with the 
shortness of funds and my people not really liking her — 
they didn’t, you know — and me being what I am and such 
a silly ass into the bargain. But she was awfully decent; 
she never nagged me. I wish I’d done more to please her ! 
I’ve wished that a good many times this last year.” 

He looked regretfully at the portrait of the meagre 
woman, in whose commonplace face lurked the tragedy of 
the inability to inspire love. 

Sam nodded. “If it’s any satisfaction to you,” he said 
after a little, “ I think you did please her a bit. She 
thought a good deal of one or two things you did; for in- 
stance, she was awfully glad when you gave up betting.” 

“ Gave up betting ! ” Cuddy exclaimed. “ Why, there 
wasn’t any choice about that when the kid was a little 
shaver trotting about the house! You can’t provide for a 
girl kid and play the goat at every race-meeting too.” 

“ That’s true,” Sam agreed, then added : “ All the same, 
I think Vie was awfully pleased about it.” 

“You really think so?” Cuddy asked. “I’m glad! 
Though, tell the truth, I never thought about her in it, one 
way or t’other. Now, I did go on that footling old council 
to please her, and on the hospital committee. That was 
after she died, the hospital committee, I mean; still, I 
thought it’d please her. A nice mug I am at those con- 
cerns, but she liked it, and the rest don’t seem to mind. I 
did a bit of clearing out here, too, to please her, but not 
half what she wanted. I wish I’d done more ! What’d it 


26 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


have mattered really if I had shut up most of the stable and 
given Jackson the boot? I wish I had! She was right, 
too; the stables simply ran away with money, and Jackson 
was an old thief and idle at that; the man we have now 
looks after the three gees and does the garden single- 
handed. She was right; but I stuck out. I stuck out 
about a lot she wanted to cut down or alter.” 

“ You altered several things,” Sam said. 

“ Cut down a bit, too,” Cuddy told him ; “ shouldn’t be 
here now if we hadn’t. Shouldn’t have managed anyway 
if it hadn’t been for Vie. Would you believe it? — she left 
us so far straight that we’ve managed to keep our heads up 
ever since ! She was a wonder ! What she did without in 
this house, maids and fires and boys and things — she turned 
’em all down, and we weren’t a bit less comfortable, 
really.” 

“ No,” Sam said loyally, honestly, too, in the main, 
though it gave him a little pain to think of paring economy 
at Countershell. 

There had been economy of sorts in the old days; the 
dresses of the ladies of the house had been few and plain, 
the travels of the family neither long nor many ; no formal 
entertainments were given, and no repairs done; but these 
were not economies that obtruded. They had never gone 
without what they wanted, never trimmed the edges, 
counted the change, reduced the servants, or used up the 
scraps; there was none of the narrowness and sordidness 
of small economy in the easy-going life. It is true they 
had saved nothing, not even the outbuildings which wanted 
propping; and accumulated nothing but debts. True, too, 
that in spite of the strain put by the death of the old owner 
and the charge for the widow and daughter, the present 
owner, contrary to several people’s expectations, was here 
and, by continuing a modified form of the new course, likely 
to be able to remain — A state of affairs creditable alike to 


VIOLET JANE 


n 


the ability of the organizer and to her generous use of her 
own money. 

“ She had got a head,” Cuddy said again with regretful 
admiration. “ She used to think a lot of you, too ; I al- 
ways put that down to her credit. I used to say to my- 
self, ‘ There can’t be much wrong with her sense, you 
know.’ ” He stopped rather penitently. “ I don’t mean 
that exactly,” he explained. “ She had fifty times the 
sense I have — a hundred times ; you know what I mean, she 
never took to any of my pals but you ; she didn’t really hit 
it with Maud even. I was always thundering glad you and 
she got on ; she had a great opinion of you.” 

“ I didn’t deserve it,” Sam said. And Cuddy agreed in- 
genuously; it was a sentiment he could appreciate. 

“ I was afraid the fat was in the fire summer before last,” 
he said, “ when she wrote to an African missionary chap 
about you. I was afraid he might write back after a bit, if 
he ran across you, and say something upsetting. But he 
didn’t ; he gave you an A. I character.” 

“Finlay, was it?” Sam asked. “He didn’t deal much 
with any but other missionaries and natives, and they 
mostly don’t think so much amiss of me ; my ‘ books and 
work and healthful play ’ don’t rub them the wrong way as 
they somehow seem to other people. One thing, they don’t 
always get to hear of ’em. I did a beauty — book, I mean 
— this time last year, twenty-five pages. My Goanese 
typed it for a consideration out of office hours, ten copies, 
some of them a bit smudgy ; still, you could make them out, 
and they hung together, though most received a lot of hand- 
ling. It was called ‘ Why We are All so Happy out Here.’ 
But there’s no encouragement for literature in the Dark 
Continent ; I was told, unofficially but emphatically, if I did 
it again I’d be found the boot on some count or other.” 

Cuddy was sympathetic ; he always was sympathetic, and 
had been since the days when Sam wrote a panegyric on 


28 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


the school they both attended — an effusion which, like his 
later exercises, caused much delight to some people and 
proportionate indignation to others. Cuddy did not under- 
stand more than half of it, but was quite sure it was all 
admirable and that his younger and more nimble-witted 
friend was unjustly censured by the jealous Powers. He 
held somewhat the same opinion now, both of Sam’s liter- 
ary and other efforts, and the treatment they received. 
They talked of such now and of times past and present far 
into the night. 

The next day was a holiday for Violet. A governess 
came most days, walking three miles to Countershell in the 
mornings and being driven home directly after lunch. 
Sam had not the pleasure of seeing Cuddy entertain her at 
lunch (he usually spoke of her as Miss Thingummy), for 
that day being Saturday, she did not come. Violet went 
rabbiting with her father and Punch and Harrison. 

“ Son of old Harris,” Cuddy explained the latter. “ You 
remember old Harris, Maud’s dog? She left him here 
when she married. Harrison’s not the dog he was, but he’s 
not bad, are you, old chap? A regular nailer for rats. 
Not that I do any ratting now ; wouldn’t do for a girl kid, 
you know.” 

“ No,” said Sam. 

“We only go rabbitin’ now. Rabbits ! Eh, Harri ! ” 
The dog barked excitedly. “That’s all right for a girl, 
isn’t it? ” Cuddy asked rather anxiously. “ You think rab- 
bits all right ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said Sam. not sure, however, that his opin- 
ion on the subject was worth much. 

Cuddy seemed to think it very valuable and consulted 
him on several educational points, notably the question of 
boarding-school. 

“ The aunts, Vie’s sisters, are set on it ; each of ’em’s 
keen on some school or other, but I don’t see it. The 


VIOLET JANE 


29 


kid can learn all she wants at home ; she can have a team of 
governesses trotting round every day if that’s all — I’d bear 
it. There’s not a bit of need for her to go away, except 
for what harm she might take from being so much with 
me. D’ye think she’ll take harm from that? I keep up 
to the mark as well as I can; though, Lord knows, that 
isn’t saying much. And I don’t let her be about the stables, 
Vie always was against kids being about stables; I don’t 
know why myself, but she was. And we go to church on 
Sundays, and I do a bit of reading now and again, or try 
to — books Miss Thingummy talks of — awful rot; but that’s 
my fatheadedness I expect. D’ye think I ought to let the 
kid go away to school ? ” 

“ No,” said Sam, “ I don’t ; I’m pretty sure Vie didn’t 
either.” 

And he was sure of it, for it suddenly occurred to him 
that possibly Vie had understood Cuddy and the child so 
well that she had left them to do for each other what she 
was prevented by death from doing for them — what, per- 
haps, she could not, by the tragedy of her nature, have done 
had she lived. 

“ Don’t send her,” he said ; “ at all events, not for a long 
while ; I’m certain Vie didn’t mean you to.” 

“ I’m glad you think so,” Cuddy said, ** awfully glad. I’d 
sooner have your opinion than anyone’s. Vie thought a lot 
of your opinion. I only wish you were in England more. 
There’s a lot of things in bringing up a girl. You’ve no 
idea how you get floored till you try. If you were here 
you’d be no end of a help.” 

Sam depreciated the compliment rather hastily, and men- 
tioned the names of Mrs. Yarborough and Enid. 

“ They’re abroad a good deal,” Cuddy said. “ I told 
you. Besides, they don’t really understand. They say she 
ought to go to school; some place at Brighton’s their 
fancy.” 


30 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


The arrival of Violet and the start for the rabbiting ex- 
pedition put an end to the discussion. It was not after- 
wards renewed, Cuddy being satisfied with the concurrence 
of Sam’s opinion with his own wishes, and Sam anxious 
to avoid giving opinions on the training and education of 
young ladies and kindred difficult subjects. 

Violet rabbited on Saturday morning, and helped clear 
the pipes which drained the lawn in the afternoon. Later 
she sat on the study floor and tried to mend a whip, and 
listened in an attentive, half-comprehending way, while her 
elders talked. Later still she sewed up a tear in her dress, 
and then played with the dogs. 

The next morning she came down in Sunday clothes, 
serious, and rather anxious about Cuddy and his appear- 
ance. She examined him critically, pulled his coat to her 
liking, and brushed him, climbing on a chair to do it. 
Afterwards she passed him as ready for church. 

Cuddy privately told Sam not to bother to come to church 
if he didn’t want to, but he was obviously glad when Sam 
said he would, though whether from a fear of looking pe- 
culiar himself, or from a difficulty in explaining the other’s 
abrentment to Violet, was not clear. 

They went to church. A big flint-built church, with a 
wonderful screen of old bleached wood, and long windows 
of green glass through which the light looked as through 
deep water. There was a small congregation, seeming even 
smaller in the high building; one overlooked it in the quiet, 
aloof place. Sam did not remember to have been in the 
church before; they had not been great church-goers at 
Countershell in the old days. He did not think of Maud 
here; she had no part in it. The coolness and remoteness 
and repose did not suggest her. 

Violet sat next her father and paid much attention to the 
service; spending some, however, on him. She found the 


VIOLET JANE 


31 


places in his prayer and hymn books, and woke him at the 
end of the sermon like a thoughtful mother. 

“ People who work in the week may go to sleep in the 
preaching,” she afterwards explained in defence of him. 

“ Of course,” said Sam. “ I might do it myself if I 
worked; perhaps even you might.” 

She shook her head. “ No,” she said; “ I have to listen. 
I have to explain things, you see.” 

And when he asked what sort of things, she replied: 

“ Bible. We have Bible after tea on Sundays. When 
mother was here we had it, and she used to explain; now 
she’s dead I have to. Sometimes it’s rather difficult, and 
we have to miss a bit, but generally we go straight on. I’ve 
got some Sunday books. I read them first, and that helps.” 

“ I see,” Sam said. They were leaving the churchyard 
by the gate near to a marble cross “ sacred to the memory 
of Violet, the beloved wife of Cuthbert Yarborough.” He 
raised his hat as he passed it. 

In the afternoon they went for a walk after going round 
the stables. One always went to the stables on Sunday 
afternoon at Countershell, and afterwards for a walk. 
Sam could not remember any Sunday spent there when 
he had not done these things, and he could remember very 
many Sundays. His memory of them stretched back a 
long way, to the time when he was a boy and Maud was a 
long-legged girl with her hair down and her skirts up. 

In spite of the advice he gave himself yesterday, the 
memory of the old days and Maud came back somewhat in- 
sistently that afternoon. It was small wonder; he had 
walked every bit of the way with her, not once but many 
times. Here, where Cuddy stopped to show with pride a 
repaired gate, Maud had stopped the last time he was it 
Countershell. She had leaned against the rickety old post, 
oblivious of the green moss which stained her coat, while 


32 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


she enthusiastically defended some wrongdoer, now for- 
gotten. 

“ How she used to stick up for sinners and jump on their 
judges ! ” he said aloud. 

“ What ? ” Cuddy asked. 

He was explaining how much he had paid the carpenter 
for repairing the gate, what he had said, and what the car- 
penter. It was the first gate which had been repaired in 
his time, or his father’s either; he was proud of it. Sam 
examined and admired it. He knew something of carpen- 
tering. He could turn his hand to that as to a good many 
other things. 

A little farther on they stopped again, and Cuddy pointed 
out a cottage with half the old thatch replaced with slates. 
Maud had stopped at that cottage one showery day when 
she and Sam were out together. The roof was all thatch 
then, picturesquely drooping at the eaves; the water ran 
down it to the uneven path and in at the door, in spite of 
the efforts of those within to keep it out. Maud had gone 
in to help them; he had gone too. He had improvised a 
shute with half a tin and two boards, so as to divert the 
worst of the water, and she had rolled up her sleeves and 
taken mop and pail. She had worked a quarter of an hour, 
filling the house with gaiety and mirth, and leaving, when 
she left, those who lived there, to continue mopping cer- 
tainly, but brightened as if the sun had shone in. 

“ Let’s get on,” Sam said, as Cuddy still stood to admire 
the slates ; “ this place is a bit crowded.” 

“ Crowded ? ” said Cuddy, looking round the wide land- 
scape. “ What with ? ” 

“ Ghosts,” Sam told him ; “ it simply vimmels with them. 
Don’t you know a place where men have lived is always full 
of them? — ghosts of Sunday dinners and washing-days, 
and gather-ye-the-rosebuds-while-ye-may, and ripe apples, 
and smacks in the eye — I know something of the ghost cult. 


VIOLET JANE 


33 


The black man is a dab at it — I have a sneaking liking for 
the black man in some of his branches. ,, 

Cuddy, much bewildered, looked from the cottage to the 

muddy lane. “ There are none here ” he began, then 

came to the conclusion that Sam was not meant to be taken 
seriously. “ What an old ass you are ! ” he said affection- 
ately, and moved on. 

Farther on they stopped by another cottage ; this time by 
Violet’s choice. There was an old woman at the door, and 
Violet stopped to inquire after a bed-ridden husband. She 
inquired briefly and gravely — as, possibly, she remembered 
to have heard her mother. Not in the least as Maud used, 
with a bubbling up of sympathy and a smile that lent a mo- 
mentary brightness even to a house of sorrow or toil. 

Violet listened to what she was told seriously and at- 
tentively, and when she heard the old man was no better 
said : 

“ I am sorry,” in a grave way, then turned to Cuddy. 

“ P’r’aps we’d better tell cook to make some broth ? ” she 
said to him. 

The old woman gave thanks as if she felt sure of the 
broth, and gathered a piece of early wallflower for Violet. 

Violet said “ Thank you,” and carried the flower away. 

Once Sam had seen early-opened spring flowers gath- 
ered in that garden for Maud, the garden stripped bare of 
everything that approached bloom to make a nosegay for 
her. She had been delighted with them and expressed 
her thanks in words and smiles which more than repaid. 
She had tucked the flowers into the front of her half-fast- 
ened coat; they were too many to go into belt or button- 
hole ; even as it was some fell out on the road. All fell out 
when she got home and unfastened the coat. They tumb- 
led to the floor and lay under the table while she went to 
look at Mr. Yarborough’s fishing-flies and to show him an- 
other way to fix them. Sam remembered to have seen them 


34 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


withered under the table at the end of the afternoon, the 
same table as Violet put her flower on this afternoon while 
she went to fetch a glass of water for it. 

“Do you think it looks nice?” she asked, putting it in 
carefully. 

“ Yes,” Sam -said briefly. 

She looked round, not quite satisfied as to the genuine- 
ness of his approval. “ Perhaps the stalk is too long,” she 
said, and broke it. “ It looks nicer now, you think? ” 

He said it did, and she got down from the chair on which 
she had been kneeling. “ Are your stockings wet ? ” she 
inquired. “ Mine are. You must take them off; you may 
put them in the fender to dry if you like while I go 
and see after daddy’s.” 

Sam laughed. “ Violet Jane,” he said, as she gathered 
up the pieces of stalk and leaf previous to going — “ Violet 
Jane, it strikes me you will never know the delirium of 
life.” 

“ What? ” she said. 

“ What’s that?” he asked — “Something that does not 
look before or after, or sigh for what is not — or what is, 
for the matter of that; that remembers no yesterday and 
thinks of no to-morrow; that lives in the sunshine, and 
makes others so live for a time — and forgets the dead; 
that those who have don’t know, and those who know don’t 
have — it melts in their hands like a soap bubble.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Violet, polite but puzzled. “ I used to blow 
soap bubbles when I was little; I’m too old now.” 

She pulled off her stockings and put them in the fender. 
“ Take yours off and put them there too,” she commanded. 
“ I must see after daddy.” 

Sam picked her up. “ We’ll go together,” he said, “ you 
can’t go with bare feet.” 


CHAPTER II 

MRS. WHITE AND MRS. PERCY KINGSTON 

I N July Sam was again at Countershell ; this on the oc- 
casion of the visit of Mrs. White and Mrs. Percy Kings- 
ton. 

Mrs. Kingston, the younger of Mrs. Cuthbert Yarbor- 
ough’s two sisters, wrote to Cuddy in June saying she 
would much like to come for a few days to see dear little 
Violet. Cuddy was somewhat overwhelmed by the pro- 
posal, which was the first of its kind since Vie’s death, the 
aunts heretofore having been satisfied with seeing Violet at 
their own and each other’s houses. But he was an hos- 
pitable soul, if an indolent one; so after consultation with 
Sam, he agreed to Mrs. Kingston’s suggestion. Then, act- 
ing on Sam’s advice, invited Mrs. White to come at the 
same time. 

“ It’s a deal easier to have two women than one,” was 
Sam’s opinion. “ I know, for I’ve put up all manner of 
stray females when I was stationed on the line of march 
up-country — missionary women, globe-trotting women, she- 
nimrods, odd wives ; it’s wonderful how some men will take 
their belongings round with them! One woman’s no joke, 
no matter how many brothers and husbands she has with 
her, but two’s nothing much ; take my advice, and have both 
aunts, you’ll find it a heap simpler. Besides, you might get 
landed with the other later on if you didn’t.” 

Accordingly, Cuddy invited the elder aunt to come as 
well as the younger, on the condition — this not stated to the 
ladies — that Sam came to Countershell and saw him through 
the visit. 


35 


36 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


Sam came a day or two before the date fixed for the 
aunts. Cuddy and Violet met him at the station, and 
Cuddy thanked him for coming as one thanks a friend who 
has promised support through a trying ordeal. 

“ Not,” he added hastily, “ that we aren’t pleased to 
see ’em ; we are, of course. They came once when Vie was 
alive, but I never thought of ’em coming now; it’s jolly 
decent of ’em, though I own the idea was a bit of a facer 
at first.” 

Sam asked what they were like. 

“ Like ? Oh, like other people,” Cuddy said vaguely. 
“ One’s shorter than the other, that’s the younger one ; I 
like her best.” 

“ I don’t,” Violet remarked from the back seat of the 
dog-cart, where she knelt upright so as to bring her head 
nearly on the same level as her father’s. “ I like Aunt 
Mary best, she’s real ; Aunt Lilia’s only stuffed.” 

“ What’s she stuffed with ? ” Sam inquired with interest, 
but the rapid turn of a sharp corner prevented Violet from 
answering, giving her enough to do to hold on for the mo- 
ment. 

“She’s jolly well stuffed,” Cuddy said; “she fills her 
clothes a marvel. Always puts me in mind of a pouter 
pigeon in corsets; she’s a little plump party with a coo-ey 
voice and round eyes. She agrees with what you say, and 
asks your advice and that sort of thing. Mary’s different ; 
the grey mare’s the better horse in that show, though 
White’s a decent enough fellow; I like him better than 
t’other chap. Mary’s more like Vie, she’s got sense. She’s 

older than Vie, and not so smart, though more comf 

She doesn’t have so much to worry her. She’s got five 
kids, Lilia has none.” 

Sam turned for Violet’s opinion of the children : “ I 
don’t know them much,” she said ; “ the three big ones have 
always been at boarding-school when we’ve been there, and 


MRS. WHITE AND MRS. KINGSTON 37 


the two little ones are quite little, too little to count. But 
I like Aunt Mary best, I’m glad we stay most of the time 
with her, and only one night with Aunt Lilia. Her house 
is like a doll’s house, not one you play with but one in a 
shop, and everything in it is shiny. Daddy mostly knocks 
something over/’ 

“ Daddy ’ll knock you over for a tell-tale,” Cuddy said, 
threatening her with the whip. 

At that she laughed and pulled his ears. Afterwards 
there was no more serious conversation. 

But when she had gone to bed that night Sam referred 
again to the prospective visitors, and asked what Cuddy 
was going to do to entertain them. 

Cuddy looked surprised, he had not thought of that : none 
of the Yarboroughs ever had thought of such a thing ; they 
asked people to come and see them because they liked them, 
and took it for granted those who came did so because they 
liked them and so, of course, liked the same things. Not 
one of the Yarboroughs had ever thought of doing any- 
thing but what they personally liked and wished on account 
of a guest. Cuddy looked a little puzzled when the idea 
was presented to him now. 

“ What ought I to do ? ” he said. “ What d’you mean ? ” 

“ You’ll have them here for three days,” Sam said; 
“ you’ll have to do something to amuse them.” 

“ What ? Garden parties and polo and that sort of thing ? 
You know, there aren’t any about here ! ” 

Cuddy showed signs of consternation, but Sam said 
“ Ass ! ” in a fatherly manner, and asked what Vie had done 
when her sisters visited her. 

“ I don’t know,” Cuddy said ; “ I kept out of the way. 
They sat and sewed and talked, I think, and saw people 
round about, or went driving or something.” 

Sam nodded : “ They’ll sit and sew and talk with each 

other now a bit,” he said ; “ that’s the sense of having two ; 


38 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 

and Violet will sit with them if you give her a holiday/’ 
“ A bit rough on her ? ” Cuddy suggested. 

“ No,” Sam said, “ she’s only half a Yarborough ; she’s 
got a sense of duty — it’ll drive her to do all manner of jobs 
by-and-by. I shouldn’t wonder if she demanded a holi- 
day for this one if you don’t give it her.” 

“ So as to be with the aunts ? ” Cuddy asked. 

He did not believe it, but Sam persisted in his opinion. 
“ She mayn’t like it much,” he said, “ but, I bet, she’d dis- 
like not doing it, not doing the thing properly, more ; that’s 
the sense of duty, my boy. But about the ladies, we must 
invent some entertainment for them, for the non-sewing- 
and-talking time. What is their line ? ” 

Cuddy did not know, but after several questions from 
Sam as to their politics, recreations, form of religion 
and subjects of conversation he achieved the idea of thea- 
tres. 

“ The Lilia one talks about theatres,” he said. “ I don’t 
know if she goes to church or chapel ; how should I ? But 
I think she goes to theatres a lot. What else does she talk 
about ? I don’t know — sweet peas, I think. She’s got a bit 
of ground behind the house — so big. Grows ’em there, I 
suppose. Ah, yes, and food; she knows about that. You 
get a rattling good dinner at her house, though the drinks, 
I must say, are a bit swipey. At White’s, on the other 
hand, you get drink that’s worth having. He’s in the wine 
trade ; not a bad sort at all. Mrs. ? ” — he was brought back 
to the point by Sam — “ She’s all right ; makes things for 
bazaars and helps people when they get into bothers, and 
advises ’em about their kids. She’s awfully keen on 

schools, boarding-schools. Rot, I call it ” 

“ We can’t run a boarding-house for her, nor a theatre 
for the other one,” Sam said. “ Sweet peas — have you got 
any?” 

“ Dare say ; or might get some perhaps.” 


MRS. WHITE AND MRS. KINGSTON 39 


Sam shook his head, and gave it as his opinion that it 
would not be possible to import plants to any purpose in the 
time. “ Maybe there are some somewhere,” he said ; “ and 
if there aren’t, quite likely some other garden truck will do. 
Walk her round to admire the snapdragons and name the 
roses.” 

“ What’s the good of that? ” Cuddy asked. 

Sam was not complimentary to his friend’s intelligence. 
“ I suppose I shall have to do that,” he said. “ Go on to 
the next. What about a bazaar? I suppose there isn’t 
likely to be one anywhere round ? ” 

“No such luck.” 

“ Well, the rector — he’s in that line. Ask him to tea.” 

“ My dear chap ! ” Cuddy protested. 

“ Is he the man who was here in your father’s time ? ” 
Sam asked. 

“ He was here the end of their time. I don’t think he 
bothered them at all, though. He and his daughter — she’s 
just like Snowdrop — you remember Snowdrop, the old 
white mare that used to do the carting ? — they called on Vie 
when we came here, and she called on them. She always 
did the proper thing, you know; she was a wonder. I 
wouldn’t go with her — I wish I had now. I’ve hardly 
spoken to the chap myself ; once or twice on boards and 
things, and — oh, yes, once when Vie asked him here, he and 
Snowdrop. That was when the aunts were here before.” 

“ Good luck ! ” said Sam. “ That’s what we want ! 
We’ll do it on that. It’d be better if we could run up 
against him or Snowdrop some time to-morrow, and do it 
casual-like. I dare say we might. I’ll make inquiries into 
their habits. The servants are sure to know something 
about them in a place this size. We ought to be able to 
meet them by accident somewhere, but if we don’t we’ll 
get them some way. That’s one day settled. We might 
drive over to Crowhampton another.” 


40 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ What for?” Cuddy asked. 

“ To look at the sea,” Sam answered. 

“The sea? You’d be much better going to Bedemouth 
for that. It’s not half the distance, and a better drive ; be- 
sides, it’s all right when you get there ; — not a soul in sight. 
I’ve hardly seen a soul on those sand-dunes all the times 
we’ve been there, and the birds ” 

“ My good fathead,” Sam said, “ do you imagine that 
your sisters-in-law will want to walk on the top of sand- 
dunes or lie flat on their stomachs at the bottom to watch 
birds?” 

Cuddy, when he came to think of it, could not imagine 
either. “Well, what’ll they do at Crowhampton ? ” he 
objected. 

“ Listen to the band,” Sam said. “ There is a band, 
isn’t there? There used to be, and a parade, and an hotel 
where you get lunch, menu (gold-printed) thrown in, and 
waiter extra, and not more sand with the victuals than in 
other well-appointed houses in the district. We will go 
there, my friend. We will put on our summer suits; we 
will drive with a pair — by the way, they don’t step to- 
gether. We will parade, and smoke the elegant cigarette, 
and admire the beauties of Nature disporting themselves 
in the sea, and take tea at the Japanese Cafe, No. 5, High 
Street, and return. With management the jaunt should 
last from 10.30 a.m. to 6.30 p.m. Two days settled. They 
are to be here three, not counting arrival and departure? 
We only want something for one more. What about 
neighbours? Isn’t there anybody with anything to be 
looked at ? ” 

Cuddy could think of no one to any purpose. There 
was a man he knew some six miles away who was breed- 
ing bloodhounds. He suggested him hopefully, but Sam 
shook his head. The doctor at Denham was said to be in- 
terested in diphtheria, and to have a promising colony of 


MRS. WHITE AND MRS. KINGSTON 41 


germs. Cuddy mentioned him less hopefully, and again 
Sam shook his head. There were the Burbidges, who had 
built the big red house between Countershell and the sta- 
tion. They had a swimming-bath in their winter garden 
with a lid which could be lowered and made a superior 
dancing-floor. 

“ But that's no go," he said. “ A swimming-bath’s not 
much good unless you swim that I see, though Burbidge 
doesn’t. He built it for his visitors, I think.’’ 

“Any relation to one Graham Burbidge?’’ Sam asked. 
“ There’s a man of that name with a scheme for growing 
cotton or something on a large scale in Central Africa — a 
commercial, not a philanthropic scheme. He’s a financial 
man; only knows the salubrious continent as a field for 
financial operations, I believe ; but, so it’s said, he has oper- 
ated there to some purpose — netted a fortune out of rub- 
ber alone.’’ 

“ He’ll be brother of the man here,’’ Cuddy said. “ I met 
Burbidge the other day, and he talked to me a lot about 
his brother as if he was somebody you know. He, the one 
here, has made his pile, but t’other seems to have done 
more. Decent chap, this one ; subscribes to everything, and 
no side. He asked me to look him up while the brother’s 
with him. I shan’t do it, of course. I’m no good at that 
sort of thing, but it was decent of him to ask a mug like 

, n a 

me. 

“ Is the brother there now ? ’’ Sam inquired. “ Ask them 
here; it’ll be the thing for the aunts; it’ll please them to 
look at a tame millionaire. You can do it on me. ‘ Your 
friend, S. Bailey, from Central Africa, is with you and 
would like to meet the Progenitor of Cotton-Growing’ — 
I’m nearly sure it’s cotton. ‘ Or you thought the P. of C. 
G. might care to meet him.’ We will compose a letter. 
Come? Yes, they will. Graham mightn’t if he was 
alone; he’s a biggish man, I believe, but the other one’ll 


42 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


bring him. He’s the new man here, you’re the old; he’ll 
come and bring his brother, and missus too if there is one, 
and you know them enough to put her in. They’ll do for 
the third day. There’s the lot settled; to-morrow we’ll 
clear up the house a bit.” 

The next day they cleared the house. The necessity for 
it had not occurred to Cuddy before, but he agreed when 
it was proposed and worked with zeal if not much system. 
Violet helped to the best of her ability ; she quite approved. ** 
“ Aunt Mary’s house is very tidy,” she said, “ and Aunt 
Lilia’s tidier. We must put things away.” 

And they put them, mostly into the study, though Violet, 
who already had some instinctive wish for them in their 
right places, did not quite approve. 

“ There’ll be such a muddle after,” she said, frowning. 
But Cuddy declared that did not matter, and everything — 
wading-boots and catalogues, school-books, fishing-rods, 
coats that wanted mending, hats that wanted throwing 
away, a cushion with the stuffing coming out, a rug with the 
moth in it, a packing-case, a hamper, a tangle of string — 
was heaped on the floor and chairs, and the door locked 
upon them. 

The house looked very tidy when they had done, though 
a little bare — at least, Violet thought so. “ Aunt Lilia has 
mats and things,” she said doubtfully. 

“ So she has ! ” Cuddy exclaimed. “ The pies have pet- 
ticoats on, and the soap-dish stands on a concern with a 
blue border that makes it skate about the wash-stand like a 
tiger-skin on an oak floor. D’you think we can manage 
anything of the sort?” 

Sam shook his head. “ You can’t buy those kind of 
things,” he said ; “ at all events, I’ve never seen them in a 
shop. Women make them or get them given to them.” 

“ Maybe Vie had some put away,” Cuddy said. “ We 
might look.” 


MRS. WHITE AND MRS. KINGSTON 43 


He went to inquire of the housemaid for the keys of 
the linen-cupboard. 

“ It’s always kept locked as Vie liked it,” he explained 
when, after some time, maid and keys were discovered. 

They examined the contents of the cupboard, Violet, 
mounted on a chair, conducting the examination, and turn- 
ing over and re-arranging the piles, which certainly were 
in need of the attention. She took out all pieces of ma- 
terial edged with lace or enriched with embroidery. There 
were not a great many of them now whatever there may 
have been originally, and the purpose for which they were 
intended was not very clear to her or to the other two. 
They spread them out and looked at them, and after con- 
sultation decided how to use some of them to the best ad- 
vantage. They put some dessert doilies on Mrs. Percy 
Kingston’s washstand and a face-towel with a lace border 
on Mrs. White’s dressing-table; afterwards Violet dusted 
the looking-glass in the one room with her father’s hand- 
kerchief and the water-bottle in the other with her own, 
and felt things were a good deal improved. 

The visitors came on Monday; Cuddy met them at the 
station. He much wanted Violet to go with him, but 
Sam pointed out that there would hardly be room in the 
wagonette for the ladies and the luggage if she did. So, 
reluctantly, Cuddy went alone, and she stayed with Sam 
and spent the time cheering Punch and Harrison, who 
were shut in the stable yard and resented it noisily. 

“ Aunt Lilia does not like dogs in the house,” she told 
Sam, “ so Daddy thought they’d better stop out ; but I don’t 
believe they’ll be able to unless I can make them under- 
stand why.” 

She sat on the edge of the pump, a dog on either side, 
and explained the situation to them. They licked her 
hands enthusiastically, but appeared to persist in interpret- 
ing her words, even her presence in the stable, as meaning 


44 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


an immediate prospect of freedom. She was still with 
them when the wheels of the returning wagonette were 
heard on the drive. She rose, and, accompanied by Sam, 
left them hastily, or rather, left Punch ; Harrison, who was 
younger, was out before them and receiving the guests ef- 
fusively — more effusively than Mrs. Percy Kingston, to 
whom his attentions were directed, appreciated. 

Mrs. Kingston, who wore a feathery hat and lace veil 
which took ten years from her age, kissed Violet on both 
cheeks, not raising the veil to do it. Mrs. White, looking 
much older in matronly clothes, kissed her on one only, but 
her eyes were kind as she did it. Then they went into the 
house, the younger sister talking about the dear child, the 
elder to her. At the drawing-room door Violet paused. 

“ I think I’d better put Harrison away, if you’ll ’scuse 
me,” she said ; “ he’s got to be shut up.” 

“ I’ll take him,” Cuddy said, and went with an alacrity 
which, in Sam’s opinion, was hardly decent. 

When he came back the others had already begun tea, 
which had appeared to-day with a promptness not invari- 
able in that house. Mrs. Kingston turned on his entrance 
and admired the day and the view and several other things 
enthusiastically. She said how nice it was to see the beauti- 
ful place again, how the new shrubs had grown up since 
she was last there, how Cuddy had improved the garden 
by making the flower-bed to be seen from the window. 

When Cuddy deprecated the last, saying it was Vie’s do- 
ing, not his, she said: “ Was it? Was it really? I think 
you must have inspired her without knowing it ; it. somehow 
looks like you.” 

Sam glanced from the flower-bed to Cuddy with appreci- 
ation. 

“ I don’t think it is an improvement,” Mrs. White said 
decidedly. “ Vie was always rather inclined to fuss things 
up — too many little flower-beds, too much trimming,” 


MRS. WHITE AND MRS. KINGSTON 45 


“ Poor dear Vie,” Mrs. Kingston said, sighing a little. 

Cuddy sighed too, with signs of embarrassment. Mrs. 
White fidgeted ; she was not at home with the sentimental ; 
also she considered the present rather misplaced. Vie had 
been dead more than a year, and neither she nor her sister 
had had more than normal family feeling for her, alive or 
dead ; she was not a person to be passionately beloved. An 
awkward pause might have ensued, had not Sam returned 
to the subject of Vie’s flower-bed, which, though a topic 
not so light and remote as to be jarring, was sufficiently 
removed from melancholy to save the situation and allow 
of an easy transition to sweet peas and other garden things. 
These occupied the ladies nicely until they went up to their 
rooms. 

“ You’ve put your money on the wrong horse,” Sam said 
to Cuddy when they were thus safely disposed of. “ Vio- 
let’s got a better taste in aunts than you have; hers is the 
best of the two.” 

“ Um ! ” Cuddy said gloomily. “ She was asking about 
Jane’s music lessons most of the way home, when she 
wasn’t saying she ought to be with other kids.” 

“ You should have told her you’re kid enough for 
twenty,” Sam said, “ and then turned on her family’s music 
lessons. Next time she starts on Jane ask how Jessica 
and Gwendoline, or whatever they’re called, are getting 

__ iy 

on. 

“By Jove!” Cuddy said. “That’s an idea! Do you 
think she’ll rise?” 

“ I never knew a mother interested in children, her own 
or other people’s, who didn’t; and I’ve had experience; 
I’m A i at chaperones, from five-and-thirty to five-and- 
sixty.” 

“You are a clever chap!” Cuddy said with admiration. 

“ A pity more people haven’t your penetration,” Sam re- 
plied; “ my talents aren’t as widely recognized as they 


46 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


ought to be. Though with regard to chaperones, it is 
perhaps less natural talent than natural taste : I like them, 
they delight me even sometimes. One day I think I shall 
write a poem on chaperones and the middle-aged woman 
who has achieved to the limit of her limitations ; it is a not 
universally appreciated class. ,, 

Cuddy nodded, quite without comprehension. “ I say,” 
he said, “ when Mary starts in again on Jane and school 
and all that, you tackle her; you’d do it better than I 
should.” 

Sam said he would; and, that evening at dinner, did to 
admiration. In that way he came to hear a good deal 
about Mrs. White’s family and about her ideas of educa- 
tion, which in the main were sensible. He also perceived 
that she was sincere in her sense of responsibility towards 
her dead sister’s child, and, consequently, that a discussion 
of Violet’s education and training was merely postponed, 
not prevented. Mrs. Percy Kingston gave little attention 
to the conversation, declaring herself an old-fashioned 
woman and one who did not think a girl should know too 
much ; privately holding every other view to be rather mid- 
dle-class and out of date now. So, while Mrs. White 
talked of education, she prattled to Cuddy and listened re- 
spectively to anything approaching an opinion he might be 
said to express. 

After dinner Mrs. White suggested that Violet should 
play her piece. 

“ I don’t know it very well,” Violet said, looking from 
Cuddy to Sam with covert appeal. 

Cuddy could not rise to the occasion, though he was even 
more distressed than she was. “ Er — yes — ” he said. 
“ Um! What d’you think, Jane? ” 

But Sam said: “You certainly don’t quite know it. I 
thought so when I heard you practising this morning. I 
should think it would be better if you were to try it over a 


MRS. WHITE AND MRS. KINGSTON 47 


bit to-morrow, and then play it to Mrs. White, when you 
and she are alone, and we are not here to criticize.” 

Violet breathed an audible sigh of relief, and Mrs. White 
made some remark upon using children to play in public. 
But the compromise was accepted, and soon after Violet 
went to bed. Cuddy did suggest she should stay a while 
to be taught bridge, as Mrs. Kingston wanted a game, and 
there was no fourth, since Mrs. White did not play. But 
the idea was quashed, Mrs. White thought Violet had al- 
ready sat up later than she ought, and Mrs. Kingston said 
she did not quite like the idea of so young a child learning 
to play cards. 

“ She plays bezique now,” Cuddy said with pride. 
“ Don’t you, Jane? You often beat your old father.” 

“ Does she?” Mrs. Kingston said. “How nice! Of 
course, bezique is different from bridge. Somehow one 
doesn’t quite like to think of a child learning to play bridge. 
I’d rather play three-handed than that.” 

So the child went to bed, and Mrs. White went on knit- 
ting a baby’s hood from a complicated receipt she had in a 
book on her lap, and the other three played. Cuddy 
played badly; Mrs. Kingston with much attention and no 
inspiration. Sam, she said, had the making of a good 
player with practice. He thanked her warmly for the fa- 
vourable opinion, and promised to take her advice and get 
all the practice he could. 

It was an entirely successful evening, and one member 
of the party at least enjoyed it thoroughly. Sam was so 
pleased with himself and his company that it was almost a 
shock to him when, just before saying good-night, Mrs. 
Kingston mentioned Maud Lassiter’s name — some conver- 
sational question, had he seen her lately? or something of 
the sort. 

He had not seen her for four years, and had not thought 
of her for four days. To have been at Countershell and 


48 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


not to have thought of Maud! It was extraordinary, it 
was almost like treason. But he had been so busy helping 
to get ready, and then laying himself out for the aunts’ 
entertainment (and his own) that it had somehow hap- 
pened. Not unnatural, perhaps, but still surprising. 

He told Mrs. Kingston he had not seen Maud for a good 
while; and Mrs. White announcing that it was time for 
bed, no more was said of her. 

Cuddy lighted the visitors’ candles with much politeness 
and a scatter of grease; and when they had gone upstairs, 
went to see if the front-door was bolted: he usually con- 
scientiously examined it and forgot the existence of the 
back one. After that he led Sam to the study, feeling for 
his pipe by the way. 

The study door was locked, and Violet, her father re- 
membered, had the key. “ She said I’d open the door and 
forget to shut it if I could get at it,” he said. 

“ Quite right,” Sam answered, “ she knows you, and, by 
inference, me ; she is, without doubt, the man of the house. 
Let’s go and smoke out of doors, the moon is at the full, 
the dogs upon the serenade. We’d better let them loose, 
by the way, if you want your guests to sleep. 

The dogs were loosed and the guests slept. 

At all events they politely said so at breakfast the next 
morning. Violet, as Sam had foreseen, assumed responsi- 
bility for the morning, dragging chairs to a shady place in 
the garden for her aunts, suggesting books — not especially 
suitable ones, it must be admitted — for their reading; and 
sitting down to keep them company with her needlework 
and the box of chocolates Mrs. Kingston had brought her. 
She was conscientious in offering the chocolates, never 
taking one herself unless the guests did first, and calling to 
Sam when she caught sight of him in the distance to come 
and participate. 

“ My dear child ! ” Mrs. Kingston said.. “ You must not 


MRS. WHITE AND MRS. KINGSTON 49 


speak to grown-up people like that. You should call Mr. 
Bailey ‘ Uncle Sam.’ ” 

“ Why ? ” Violet asked. “ He isn’t uncle ; besides, he’s 
too small.” 

Mrs. Kingston pointed out that that had nothing to do 
with it, and, repeating her favourite comment on herself, 
said she was so old fashioned that she liked little girls to 
be respectful to their elders. 

“ Isn’t ‘ Sam ’ respect — respectable ? ” Violet asked. 
“ Does he mind being called it ? ” She turned to Sam, who 
joined them now. “ Did you mind being called Sam?” 
she inquired. 

“ Well,” he answered, “ if I’d been offered my choice I 
don’t know that I should have selected it ; I should have in- 
clined towards Rupert or perhaps Tiberius. But my god- 
fathers and godmothers decided on Samuel, and perhaps 
it’s all for the best. Sam takes less living up to.” 

“ You don’t mind very much then? ” Violet asked, a little 
doubtful. “Would you rather I called you Samuel?” 

“ I should like it immensely.” 

She sighed relief. “ It is longer,” she said ; “ longer 
names are more respectable, aren’t they ? ” 

One or other of the aunts might have corrected this im- 
pression had not Sam prevented by saying : “ Respect is 

not my strong point, nobody yet has respected me, and, I’m 
told, I show a lamentable want of respect in dealing with 
my superiors — at least in some ways. May I move your 
chair ? ” — this to Mrs. Kingston — “ the sun has got so far 
round, it shines in your eyes. Let me move your chair or 
fetch you a sunshade.” 

The chair was moved, and afterwards the sunshade 
fetched, and a stroll round the garden undertaken. Sam 
acquitted himself well with Mrs. Kingston — opening doors, 
picking up handkerchiefs, looking at sweet peas and roses, 
and at all times paying her the attention she delighted in. 


50 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


He did well with Mrs. White, too, upon the whole, though 
it was rather more difficult, in spite of the fact that he liked 
her the better of the two. However, he so far succeeded, 
that she remarked to her sister he had more sense than she 
had at first thought. 

This remark was made on the day of the drive to Crow- 
hampton. A successful day on the whole — the weather 
was fine, the roads not too dusty, the lunch at the hotel 
reasonably good; the band played a refined selection of 
well-known music, and the parade was reasonably full of 
nicely dressed people. The only unsatisfactory thing was 
that Mrs. White had taken the opportunity of walking 
Cuddy along the parade and talking seriously to him about 
Violet’s education, a proceeding disconcerting to Cuddy 
and displeasing to Mrs. Kingston, who wanted his escort 
herself. Neither of which facts troubled Mrs. White — 
the first she did not perceive, and the second she did not 
mind. 

“ It is ridiculous for you to pretend you are fond of 
Cuthbert,” she said bluntly to her sister when they were 
discussing the expedition and other things upon their re- 
turn. “ And as for asking his opinion about all manner 
of things as you do, it is nonsense; you know that as well 
as I do, seeing how stupid he is. Of course one makes 
the best of a relation by marriage, just as much as any 
other kind; we always have made the best of him, and I 
hope we always shall ; but more no one could do.” 

Mrs. Kingston could do more — she enjoyed talking to 
her acquaintance of her connection with the Suffolk Yar- 
boroughs and her visit to the home of the family, and she 
could see the head of the house as the head of the house, 
not merely Cuddy, and could count him as such. But she 
had no wish to explain this to her sister, and, as it hap- 
pened, she was not called upon to do so, for Mrs. White 


MRS. WHITE AND MRS. KINGSTON 51 


went on to speak of Sam and his possession of more sense 
than she at first thought. 

Mrs. Kingston agreed amiably. “ He's really quite a 
nice boy," she added. 

“ He’s not a boy," Mrs. White said. “ Why do you per- 
sist in calling all men under fifty boys ? " 

“ I don’t," the other protested. “ But Mr. Bailey really 
is a boy ; he can’t be more than four- or five-and-twenty." 

“ He must be, though he mayn’t look it," Mrs. White 
maintained. “ And even if he were not, that’s not a boy ; 
it is affectation to call him so. He is a man, and with 
more sense than a good many young men." 

“ He does not strike me as particularly intellectual," 
Mrs. Kingston retorted. “ Of course he has been about 
the world, quite different from the men one meets in the 
suburbs " — they both lived in the suburbs, some two miles 
from one another; Mrs. White liked it and said so, Mrs. 
Percy Kingston liked it and said she did not. “ Of course 
he is not like the men one meets there," she said, “ but as 
for being intellectual " 

“ I did not say he was,” Mrs. White reminded her. “ I 
said he had some sense — a good deal more than Cuthbert* 
I shall speak to him about Violet’s education to-mor- 
row." 

And she did, prefacing her remarks by saying that he 
appeared to have some influence on Cuthbert, and that it 
would be a good thing if he were to exert it on Violet’s be- 
half. 

Sam modestly deprecated this opinion of his powers, but 
she paid no heed to that, and proceeded to state her views 
about Violet and her education and the desirability of 
boarding-schools in general and particular. 

“ She is very backward for her age," so she concluded 
— “backward in her studies, I mean; and backward in 


52 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


other things too, though over-forward in some others. She 
ought to go to school, it is not right for her to be brought 
up without any children of her own age.” 

“ Cuddy’s a regular child,” Sam ventured, but found it 
a mistaken venture. 

“ He is certainly not what one would call a judicious 
father,” Mrs. White said ; “ and already he has little or no 
authority over Violet. In a few years time I don’t know 
what it will be.” 

“ They get on awfully well together,” Sam protested ; 
“ they’re as happy as the day’s long.” 

“ That’s not the point,” Mrs. White said. “ The ques- 
tion is what is best for the child, what will be best in the 
long run ? Do you consider it is fit for a girl to be brought 
up without a woman’s influence, with no lady in the 
house? ” 

“ No ” Sam agreed; then asked with some cheerful- 

ness, “But who could come? Enid, Miss Yarborough, is 
always with her mother, and she’s half an invalid into the 
bargain; they can’t stand the cold here.” 

“ I know,” Mrs. White said. “ Most unsuitable ; not at 

all what Vie Not possible. It is not possible for 

anyone to be here. My sister and I both have our own 
homes and responsibilities; we cannot leave. Our single 
sister died soon after Vie married ; there is no one to come. 
That is why I say the child ought to be sent to school. She 
ought to go for her future good, even more than her pres- 
ent happiness.” 

“ Yes,” Sam said, almost half-convinced for the moment, 
and wondering whether it was his duty to do something or 
to persuade Cuddy to. “ Jane’s a bit young for school, 
perhaps ? ” he said tentatively. 

But Mrs. White replied : “ Mina, my little girl, who is 
a year older than Violet, went at just her age. She and 
Dorothy, her elder sister, went together when they were 


MRS. WHITE AND MRS. KINGSTON 53 


too old to be in the nursery with the little ones. I had to 
make some change then, and I decided that was the best 
in the circumstances. I have never regretted it. In Vio- 
let’s case I am still more sure it would be the best thing. 
I should say send her to the school where Dorothy and 
Mina are, except that it is not in a bracing place — not 
nearly so bracing as this. There is a very good school, I 
believe, near Felixstowe ” 

She gave an account of it and of others. Sam encour- 
aged her by his attention, which was quite as much due to a 
feeling that he ought to collect information on the subject, 
as to an idea of deflecting her from the main point. In the 
end she announced that she would send him some prospec- 
tuses. 

“ It is no use sending them to Cuthbert,” she said. 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” Sam said, remembering Cuddy’s 
careful perusal of all that came by post. “ I’m sure he’d 
read them.” 

“ I don’t think he would — not to any purpose,” Mrs. 
White said. “ I shall send them to you, and you can pass 
them on to him.” 

Sam thanked her, and the gong going for luncheon, the 
matter ended. Sometimes, afterwards, he used to wonder 
if it was well it did end there, if he ought not to have done 
something somewhere or somehow. 

That afternoon the Burbidges came. The rector and 
his daughter had been to tea on the first day of the visit; 
the Burbidges, as a secondary entertainment, had been left 
to the last. They came somewhere about four o’clock in a 
handsome car with two men in livery, both very good-look- 
ing. Mrs. White and Mrs. Kingston were more impressed 
by the car and the men and the French motor-bonnet that 
Mrs. Burbidge wore, than they had been with the rector 
and his rather homely daughter. With Cuddy it was oth- 
erwise, and, unconsciously, he was both more easy and 


54 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


more dignified than his sisters-in-law had ever before seen 
him. 

Mr. and Mrs. Burbidge were pleasant people, by no 
means ostentatiously wealthy, taking their money as a mat- 
ter of course and forgetting it, but perhaps not quite able 
to forget the fact that Cuddy was the last of an old family 
established generations before themselves. Graham Bur- 
bidge was of a different stamp to his brother, older and in- 
finitely more able — a smallish man, faultlessly dressed, with 
a polished manner which suggested a smooth, hard shell, 
inside which there might be anything or nothing. He 
listened with flattering attention to what the ladies might 
say, and paid them a neat compliment or two, but his hard, 
dull eyes did not light with interest, any more than did the 
single eye-glass he wore ; indeed, he paid precisely the same 
attention to Cuddy’s not very inspired remarks and as 
much or more to Violet’s childish words. 

He put a few questions to Sam about Central Africa, 
since that to talk of it was the ostensible reason of the 
visit. Sam answered in the non-committal way of the offi- 
cial unofficially asked, giving a little information about 
climate and soil and crops. Afterwards he described how 
he himself had once tried to grow a crop of vanilla, an at- 
tempt which had been thwarted by monkeys. 

“ The worst gardeners in the world,” he said, turning to 
Mrs. Burbidge; ‘‘the worst since Adam, I should think, 
and he must have been a duffer, since he got himself kicked 
out. I am certain Solomon didn’t start importing apes, 
along with the ivory and peacocks, in the ships of Tarsus, 
until he had done with the Garden of Spices. Every morn- 
ing the brutes used to come down and have a look at my 
vanilla slips. They would pull up one here and one there, 
look at it, and squat on their hunkers and talk it over with 
the next man, and compare with his take ; then they’d break 
a bit off and taste it, or stick half of it in the ground again 


MRS. WHITE AND MRS. KINGSTON 55 


wrong way up. I shot the head of the tribe one day. For- 
tunately, the river ran handy, and as the crocodiles were 
elsewhere engaged, I made the rock in mid-stream safely. 
What for? Oh, to sit on. I sat there an hour, and the 
monkeys sat on the bank and discussed me and my habits 
and my ancestors and future state very rudely. At the 
end of that time they decided to have a funeral without 
waiting for me, so, failing my corpse, they took up the 
chief’s and went away with it. I returned before dark, 
but I made no more attempts to grow vanilla.” 

“ Why did you try it ? ” Graham Burbidge asked with a 
flicker of interest. 

“ I don’t know,” Sam answered. “To see if it would 
grow, I suppose. The soil struck me as right, though the 
climate’s rather hot and moist.” 

“Does the Government encourage that sort of thing?” 

“Lord, no!” 

“ I’d have had a scarecrow,” Violet said meditatively. 
She had been thinking of the spoiled garden with regret. 
“ I mean a scare-monkey. I’d have got a boy if I couldn’t 
get a stuffed one.” 

“ No good,” Sam told her. “ Apes are not scared of the 
black man. They have no respect for him. They look 
upon him as one of themselves.” 

Mrs. Burbidge laughed, but Mrs. White showed dis- 
approval. “ It does not seem right to speak of the black 
like that,” she said. “ After all, he is a brother man.” 

“ Is he ? ” said Sam thoughtfully, and as if he were ask- 
ing for information on a point on which he was not sure. 

Mrs. White was quite sure and said so, but Mrs. King- 
ston disagreed. “ Horrid creatures ! ” she declared. 
“ The thought of them makes me creep. They are no more 
than animals.” 

“Aren’t they?” said Sam, with the same doubtful in- 
quiry. 


56 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


He gently pulled Punch’s ears. Punch and Harrison 
had the freedom of the house by this time. “ You’re an 
animal, old man,” he said to the dog. “ True according to 
your lights, obedient to the man who can command you. 
Only half a mind; certainly only a quarter understood by 
us two-leggers. Maybe, Brother Blackman is somewhere 
between you and me, though I doubt if anyone’s going to 
find out just where, or, for the matter of that, very much 
about the inside of his head.” 

“ You seem to have some comprehension of the native,” 
Graham Burbidge observed. 

Sam thought not. “ I’ve only been out four years,” he 
said. “ One gets to be able to deal with them a little per- 
haps, but that’s all, and only that in a limited way, and 
with the tribes one comes in immediate contact with. The 
tribes are many and various, you know, and their ways as- 
tonishingly different.” 

“ Astonishingly unpleasant, too, I should think,” George 
Burbidge said. 

Sam did not entirely agree. “ Some are and some are 
not,” he said. “ Though many strike one as particularly 
foolish, they aren’t all when one comes to the bottom of 
them. It’s interesting finding out. A queer thing, when 
you come to think of it, living with a race of half -men; 
quite as interesting as a race of super-men, and more ex- 
citing. Really more in it. There’s always the chance of 
striking something worth having.” 

Graham Burbidge asked what he meant, and afterwards 
asked other questions, leading him to talk of his work and 
his opinions. At the end he inquired how long he was 
likely to be in Government service. 

“ As long as I hold out, I suppose,” Sam answered. “ I 
don’t know how long that will be. The climate is not reck- 
oned salubrious, but it agrees with me. Of course some- 
thing might occur which would return me with (or with- 


MRS. WHITE AND MRS. KINGSTON 57 

out) honour before my time was up ; you never know your 
luck.” 

“ If it does,” Burbidge said, “ if you leave Government 
service you might let me know.” 

“ I will,” Sam said, “ though I shouldn’t think I’d be 
much use to you or anyone else in those circumstances.” 

Burbidge shrugged his shoulders. “ Maybe not,” he 
said ; “ but as you say, you never know your luck. There 
are all sorts of places to fill, and I am not often mistaken 
in a man.” 

Mrs. Burbidge interrupted here. “ I am sure you are 
not,” she said graciously, but as one who feels the subject, 
if not disrespectful, is at least hardly suitable to the pres- 
ent company. “ I don’t believe he has ever made a mis- 
take about anything, Mr. Yarborough. He is the most 
wonderful judge of china you ever met. His collection of 
Sevres is really quite worth seeing.” 

Cuddy expressed a proper astonishment, which also was 
genuine. He did find it astonishing that a man, obviously 
sane, should concern himself with such a thing as china. 
He was still, in his own mind, turning over the puzzle as 
to why he did it when Mrs. Burbidge rose. 

With polite speeches the guests departed, leaving a good 
impression. Both Mrs. White and Mrs. Kingston thought 
well of them, especially Mrs. Kingston, who said that it 
would be very nice for Violet to go to Oaklands. Mrs. 
Burbidge had asked Cuddy to bring her to lunch there on 
Tuesday, when her own little girls would be home. 

The next day the aunts departed. Sam, Cuddy, and 
Violet went to the station to see them off, the luggage be- 
ing transported in the dogcart, driven by the stable-boy, 
who only dropped one hat-box on the way. Fortunately 
he discovered it in time, and it was restored by a wayfarer 
not much the worse for the accident; and though the drop- 
ping and picking up delayed the cart’s arrival at the station, 


58 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


it still did eventually get there in time for the luggage to 
be put in the train. The ladies were rather disturbed, first 
by its non-arrival, and afterwards by its handling; but 
Cuddy was quite satisfied, and much supported by the pres- 
ence of Violet and Sam. 

He beamed farewell to his sisters-in-law from the plat- 
form, thanked them heartily for coming, and invited them 
to come again. 

Violet stood beside him, and waved her hand. The last 
the two ladies saw of her was a little creature between the 
big bulk of Cuddy and the slight, alert figure of Sam. 


CHAPTER III 
MAUD 

CAM went back to Africa in the late autumn, and did not 
^ come to England again for five years. He had leave 
once during that time, but did not spend it at home. His 
father had died some months before it fell due, and his sis- 
ter married and gone out to India. There was nothing spe- 
cially to bring him to England, and he had the offer of a 
semi-official trip to the Cape. He accepted the offer, and 
spent his leave there instead of coming home. He heard 
from England, of course, during the five years ; often from 
his father while he lived, and sometimes from his sister 
before she married. After that event, and her going to 
India, she still wrote occasionally, but less often. His 
other correspondents were not very numerous; one of the 
most regular (she wrote four times a year) was one who 
at first signed herself " Yours trewly, Violet Jane Yarbor- 
ough.” In course of time the spelling improved, but the 
regularity of the writing was the same. Four times a year 
the letters came, and every Christmas a card, chosen with 
a view to the suitability of the verse or greeting on it to 
distance and a hot climate, and timed to arrive as near 
December 25 as the exigencies of the postal service would 
allow. Not such a very easy task, when one considers fre- 
quent change of station, and the vagueness of authorities on 
the subject of the departure of mails, and the length of 
time they might be expected to take in reaching their desti- 
nation. 

Cuddy wrote twice, either prompted by his daughter, or, 
59 


60 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


less likely, on his own initiative. After two efforts he 
contented himself with messages through her. From 
Maud there were no letters; but that was not surprising, 
there never had been many. Even before she married let- 
ter-writing was not her strong point; it was not likely to 
have become so. Sam had not heard from her when he 
was in England, beyond a vague message through Cuddy. 
He did not expect to hear while he was away, and he did 
not — not once during the five years. 

But, as it happened, the first of the old friends he heard 
from on his return was Maud. He heard of her before 
that, on the voyage home. A man who joined the boat at 
Suez, and whose acquaintance he made, knew her. His 
people lived not very far from Lassiter’s house, Grange 
Hall, and he had met Maud several times, and, like most 
who had done so, was ready to talk of her. He talked of 
her in plenty to Sam, and, presumably, mentioned Sam to 
her when he saw her on his arrival at home. At all events, 
she early heard of Sam’s return from someone, and be- 
thought herself to write to him. 

When he had been in London four days and only partly 
settled some troublesome business he had to arrange, he 
received a letter from her: 

“I have just heard you are hack. When are you com- 
ing to us? It is a perfect age since I have seen you — I be- 
lieve, not since I have been married. Come as soon as you 
can, and stop as long as you can. It will be ripping to talk 
over old times and renew our youth. Send a wire any day 
and come. 

Yours as ever, 

Maud.” 


“Maud,” “as ever”! Certainly “as ever”; just the 
same— just Maud. It was so like her that as he read he 


MAUD 


61 


could almost fancy he heard the ring of her voice and felt 
the gay, all-pervading pleasure of her presence. She had 
heard he was in England again, and he was her old friend ; 
she had recollected the early days of their old friendship, 
and she wanted to renew them. She had forgotten he had 
loved her long ago and hoped to marry her, if she ever 
realized it ; he had never doubted that at the time, but had 
sometimes since. She only remembered they had been 
friends, and consequently were still friends in her estima- 
tion; he being recalled to her, the old days were recalled, 
and she wanted to renew them and to see him. The rest 
was forgotten. 

He smiled a little as he realized this, but, to a certain 
extent, subscribed to it too. After all, nine and a half 
years is a long time; if one does not forget, one changes; 
maturity can smile at the passions of youth, and accept 
with tolerance the unfulfilled hope which at one time 
seemed an intolerable ache. Certainly Sam, an exception- 
ally cheerful person, could ; and if not forget as Maud for- 
got, at least at her bidding remember an old friendship 
which is better than a lost love. It is true he had not been 
inclined to see her when he was in England before — he had 
not been specifically asked; she was, most likely, occupied 
with other things. But even that feeling was gone now. 
He despatched a telegram saying he would come the day 
after to-morrow. 

And on that day, the troublesome business disposed of, 
and everything clear, he went. 

Maud had changed. In nine and a half years one could 
not expect otherwise, Sam did not really. She had grown 
more beautiful; from a girl she had grown to a woman; 
her voice was fuller, her chest deeper, her whole person 
more magnificent. But in other things, in everything al- 
most except appearance, she was disconcertingly the same: 
her manner — the frank camaraderie of old ; her enthusiasm 


62 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


— the old enthusiasm for whatever was toward; her pleas- 
ure in seeing him, what it would have been years ago. 
The very welcome was the same, just as if it were weeks, 
not years, since they met. Sam felt as if it were weeks, 
the years were forgotten, including the year when he fell 
in love with her. It was as if they were back at Counter- 
shell in the days before that happened. Why, she even 
wore similar clothes to those she used to wear then — an 
old tweed skirt and a loose shirt with sleeves that slipped 
back from her beautiful arms. 

They sat together in the smoking-room at Grange Hall, 
exactly as they used to in the den at Countershell. She 
sat in a low chair by the fire — it was a chilly afternoon in 
October — and reached for things on the table beside her as 
she used in the old days. There was whisky and syphons 
on the table just as there used to be, and tea, though a more 
elegant tea equipage than at Countershell. Lassiter was a 
rich man, and everything in the house luxuriant. But 
Maud poured out just as she used when she did it of old, 
filling the saucer as well as the cup in her attention to what 
she was saying, and upsetting the sugar-basin when she 
went to rescue a book from the puppy. 

Someone had lately given her a St. Bernard puppy, an 
ungainly little animal, much bewildered by the world and 
much inquiring; in everything and trying everything when 
not held by its mistress. It interrupted conversation 
rather, as puppies do — as the puppies at Countershell did. 
Sam recalled them as he went to rescue a cushion, or when 
she played with the dog or called upon him to admire it, 
just as she used. It was a pleasant hour they spent, very 
like the hours of long ago. 

Somewhere about six o’clock Lassiter came in. He was 
a big man, a little older than Sam and looking more. A 
good-tempered, fresh complexioned man, without any in- 
convenient share of the ability by which his father had ac- 


MAUD 63 

quired the baronetcy ; the sort of man it is easy to live with, 
especially if well fed. 

There was no lack of good feeding at Grange Hall. 
The cook there was an artist; the mere designing of the 
dinner that evening was an achievement, and the execu- 
tion worthy of the design. Lassiter — he was already be- 
ginning to put on flesh — did full justice to it, and Maud 
encouraged him. Sam, who did not care what he ate or 
when, enjoyed their enjoyment, and what they wished him 
to enjoy. He and Maud drank healths, and told tales and 
laughed in just the old way. Lassiter content to listen and 
laugh occasionally, and more occasionally, thrust some af- 
fair of his own into the conversation without much refer- 
ence to its fitness to the matter in hand. 

During the evening a young man of the name of Lang 
came. He said he would not come in, as he was not 
dressed. He had been out on some business of his father’s, 
and was already overdue at home. Nevertheless, he did 
come in — Maud said he must — to see the puppy, of which 
he was the giver. He came, and had a whisky-and-soda, 
and saw the puppy, and talked about it and its father and 
mother, and other less close relations, until it was time for 
another whisky-and-soda. After that he was going, but 
did not. Maud said there was no hurry ; it would take him 
no time to go home, if he went by the cross-road. He de- 
clared the cross-road was the longer way, and they dis- 
cussed it and other ways, referring to incidents which had 
happened here and there to one or other of them or to 
other people, until it was discovered to be past the bedtime 
of Mr. Lang, senior, who was a partial invalid. Maud was 
much concerned and wanted to assume all the blame, to 
which Lang did not agree. He did, however, agree there 
was no particular point in hurrying home now that it was 
too late to see his father that night; so he did not hurry, 
but stayed talking some while longer. 


64 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


Sam sat the opposite side of the fire, participating in the 
conversation occasionally, but more often listening only. 
The talk was for the most part about local people, and 
trifles of which he knew nothing. The whole, from Lang’s 
coming in after declining to do so and his staying after he 
meant to go, was very like the old days ; especially was the 
forgetting of the father and his bedtime like Countershell, 
the Maud of Countershell, and those who came to see her. 
All the same, Sam felt a little — not displeased exactly, but 
a little out of tune with it ; perhaps because he himself was 
left out, and so in a position to look on more critically. It 
must have been that, it could not have been anything else, 
for certainly Maud had not changed in this; she was the 
same as ever, he was sure. He was rather glad when Lang 
went, with an unceremonious nod to Maud, and without 
saying good-bye to Lassiter, who was peacefully asleep in 
an easy-chair. 

Maud drew nearer the hearth, the puppy asleep in her 
lap. 

“ Stir the fire,” she commanded Sam, speaking quietly 
so as not to disturb husband or dog. 

“ How it makes one think of old times ! ” she said. 
“ Do you remember how we used to sit up at Countershell, 
after the household had gone to bed, you and I, and uncle 
asleep in the big chair behind us? What good times we 
had! Do you remember ” 

Of course he remembered; and of course in his turn he 
recalled something else— trifles, old incidents, old jests, past 
good days. They were still doing it when the clock struck 
one, and Lassiter, waking up, suggested it was time to go to 
bed. 

“ Awake, Teddy?” Maud asked, and complimented him 
on being an entertaining host. 

He began an apology, but she stopped him. “ Taken as 
read ! ” she said. “ You are excused ; more especially as I 


MAUD 


65 


have been talking to Sam about the days of auld lang 
syne/ which has entertained him a good deal more than if 
you had discoursed to him about breweries or income tax. 
Let’s go to bed, I’m pining for my pillow.” She put an 
arm about him, yawning as frankly as the puppy. 

That night Sam spent some time wondering why she had 
married Lassiter. He was a rich man, and she liked- the 
luxury and gaiety money could give. But she was quite 
happy without them, able to enjoy herself immensely with- 
out them ; certainly she would have had no pleasure in sell- 
ing herself for them. She had never in her life done any- 
thing in which she found no pleasure. He was convinced 
that she had not done so now. She would never have mar- 
ried solely for money and what it would bring. Lassiter 
was a big man, handsome and healthy, but in no sense mas- 
terful. He may have pleased her fancy or attracted her 
attention, but he could not have compelled her by force of 
personality, or, so far as Sam could see, have aroused the 
sensation in her he himself would have dignified by the 
name of love. Unless it was that Lassiter had just hap- 
pened along when circumstances were right, and she, feel- 
ing inclined to marry, was ready to oblige one who pressed 
his suit and could conclude it while she was still in the 
mood, there seemed no explanation. Sam felt it mysteri- 
ous. “ Though, come to that,” he thought, “ it is a bit of a 
wonder how they ever come to marry any of us. I 
wouldn’t if I were a woman.” 

The next day Lassiter went cub-hunting. He suggested 
Sam should come too, but Sam declined. He was too re- 
cently from a land when hunters were as often quadrupeds 
as bipeds and each party staked life on the enterprise, to 
feel much inclined for it ; also, and more especially, he had 
come to see Maud, who did not hunt. 

So Lassiter went alone, and Sam remained with Maud. 
It was a fine day, mild for the time of year, with occa- 


66 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


sional gleams of sun. During the morning they went out, 
and took the puppy with them. It did not help progress, 
for it had not the most rudimentary idea of following its 
mistress. Sam carried it a part of the way, as he used 
the puppies at Countershell on the rare occasion in those 
days when Maud wished to get to a given place at a given 
time. She had no such wish to-day, she seldom had; this 
was just a stroll unhampered by object or time. The 
puppy had to be carried now, because it was tired and be- 
cause she was tired of looking after it. 

At the end of an hour they found themselves on the edge 
of the Lang grounds, and though it was by then late, Maud 
thought they had better inquire how the old gentleman was 
after last night’s vexation. 

He was all right, and as cross as a bear with a sore head 
— so said his son, who came at the sound of Maud’s voice. 
He wanted her to come in, and when she refused on ac- 
count of the time, invited her to come to the kennels to see 
the remainder of the family from which the puppy was 
sprung. She went, Sam with her, and re-introduced the 
puppy to those of its relations still there; inspected the 
other dogs, and returned home three-quarters of an hour 
late for lunch. Not that that mattered, as Lassiter was 
not b.ack, and they had no one to consider but themselves. 

Half-way through lunch, Maud stopped in the middle of 
what she was saying. “ I’ve forgotten all about going up 
to the nursery ! ” she exclaimed in contrition. “ What a 
wretch I am ! I always go up and see Jack before lunch. 
I forgot all about it ! ” 

“ We were so late in,” Sam said. “ I expect he was 
having his dinner or something. Go after lunch, and take 
me with you.” 

“ Will you come ? ” Maud asked — “ will you really ? He 
is rather a darling. All right, we’ll go. Oh, I forgot, 
though. We can’t at once. He lies down an hour after 


MAUD 


67 


his dinner — doctor’s orders. His digestion isn’t what his 
ma’s was at his age — is now, for the matter of that, thank 
the Lord! We’ll have some coffee first, then we’ll go, or 
have him down to us.” 

While coffee was served in the smoking-room a visitor 
arrived, the curate of the parish, desirous of a subscription 
to a local charity. Maud acceded generously to the re- 
quest, and asked interested questions about the good work, 
sympathized with it, and offered advice enthusiastically. 
She pressed the curate to have coffee, or liqueur, or both. 
He refused, but afterwards, she continuing to press him, 
accepted, although, from his look and manner, Sam fan- 
cied cognac at half-past three in the afternoon did not quite 
accord with his conscience, even if it did with his inner 
man. He stayed a half-hour longer, and was somewhat 
talkative, though whether from the stimulus of the cognac, 
or of Maud’s company, Sam did not know. It occurred 
to him that too much Maud might not be good for the 
young man; it was the first time such a thought had oc- 
curred, but it did now. 

Lassiter came in before the visitor left, and what with 
hearing about his day and talking about the charity and 
the Lang kennels, the nursery was forgotten. At tea-time, 
however, Sam spoke of it again, and Maud herself fetched 
the child. 

She brought him on her back, he clinging to her neck, 
partly from nervousness, partly from affection. He was 
a handsome boy of five or thereabouts, with his mother’s 
beauty, though not her vivacity and abundant life. She 
dropped him on a sofa, and made pretence of tickling him ; 
and he adored her with big, admiring eyes, laughing when 
she laughed, but responding rather shyly to her play — less 
at home with her than the puppy was. With Sam he was 
friends immediately; children always were — pulling his 
hair, walking over him, and giving and demanding confi- 


68 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


dence as of one of themselves of a tougher and more pa- 
tient make. Jack was no exception to the rule, and there 
were games till it was time for him to go to bed, which 
he would only consent to do if Sam carried him there. 
Maud said he was not to be carried; she would not have 
him spoiled. But Sam, noticing the quivering lip and lit- 
tle flushed face, said he was tired and, picking him up, 
carried him away. 

The evening was pleasanter even than yesterday. Las- 
siter played Sam and Maud at billiards, and beat them; 
afterwards he went to read some reports preparatory to a 
board-meeting at the brewery. 

“ I don’t believe he gets above half of them into his dear 
old head,” Maud said, when she and Sam were left alone. 
“ But it doesn’t really matter. He is invaluable on the 
board all the same; he’s so stolid and sensible and com- 
fortable, a nice make-weight for all the more effervescent 
and able people. He’ll read his papers till a quarter-past 
ten, then decide he must go to bed, as he has got a hard 
day before him to-morrow. So he has; board-meetings 
must be an awful bore, and he often spends the afternoon 
at the brewery afterwards. We shan’t see him again this 
evening, unless he looks in to say good-night.” 

They did not, but they spent a very pleasant evening, and 
one, like those of the Countershell days, which stretched 
far into the night. 

The next day was October 19 ; Maud, glancing by chance 
at an almanac on the wall, commented on the fact as they 
sat over a late breakfast. Lassiter had left them before 
they had finished; not to go to the board-meeting, but to 
go and see a hunter he had heard of that morning. It was 
well reported on and likely to go cheap, he said ; and Maud, 
who would not have dreamed of attending a board-meeting 
or any kindred thing when she wanted to go and see a 
hunter, advised him to go and see it. One was fairly safe 


MAUD 


69 


in asking her advice ; she always perceived the necessity and 
advisability of doing what she wished herself, and usually 
extended the same grace to the affairs of others when sub- 
mitted to her. Lassiter took her advice now, and left to 
go and see the hunter before she and Sam had finished 
breakfast. 

They finished leisurely, and she glanced up at the alma- 
nac just as they left the table. “ The 19th,” she said, 
“Cuddy’s birthday! No, the 20th’s his birthday — to-mor- 
row. Fancy me remembering it ! ” 

She was rather proud of the achievement. But Sam, 
somewhat conscience-struck, said : “ I’d forgotten all about 
it! I told Jane I would be at Countershell for Cuddy’s 
birthday this year.” 

“Who is Jane?” Maud inquired. “And why did you 
tell her? This sounds interesting; is it an assignation, 
Sammy ? ” 

“Jane?” Sam said. “Violet Jane, Violet Jane Yarbor- 
ough ” 

“ Cuddy’s girl ? ” Maud asked. 

Sam nodded. “ We are great pals,” he said. “ She 
writes to me regularly. One of the letters is usually writ- 
ten soon after Cuddy’s birthday, to tell me how they cele- 
brated it. I told her last year I should most likely be home 
by then this year, and she arranged that I was to be at 
Countershell for it.” 

“ Oh, I see,” Maud said, without the deepest interest. 

Sam glanced at the clock. “ It’s late,” he said. “ I sup- 
pose I shouldn’t catch anything till your mid-day train, 
which is worse than indifferent, isn’t it ? ” 

“ What for? ” Maud said. “ What do you want to catch 
it for? To go to Countershell? But that is impossi- 
ble ! ” She opened her eyes in astonishment. “ Oh, of 
course you can get there,” she said ; “ one can get any- 
where. It is a pig of a journey from here, but one can do 


70 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


it with prayer and fasting in half a day; though one should 
start at 8 a.m. for the one decent train that serves. I didn’t 
mean you physically couldn’t do it, although you have 
missed the 8 a.m. by some several hours; what I meant is 
— it is impossible, more, absurd ! ” 

The idea of his going seemed to her ridiculous, it had 
never occurred to her as possible even. Why, she asked, 
should he go? He had only just come. 

“ I could come back to you afterwards if you’d have 
me,” he said. 

“ But you could not,” she told him. “ We’re going 
away for the week-end; and on the way home afterwards 
I shall have to stop in town and buy clothes. By the time 
I’ve done that and got back here we shall be pretty well due 
to have Ted’s brother and that lot for the pheasant shoot. 
I shouldn’t be able to put you in then; besides, it’d be a 
waste to do it — we shouldn’t get any time to ourselves. Of 
course, if you want to go to Countershell, that’s another 
thing; only, from your manner, I thought you didn’t. If 
you do — of course, go. It’s awfully jolly to have you here ; 
I love it, and I hoped you would stay till we leave on Fri- 
day. But if you want to go, don’t stop for that. But if 
you don’t, there is no earthly reason that I see why you 
should. You must do as you please.” 

Everyone did where Maud was, from herself down- 
wards ; and usually it turned out well enough — at least for 
those who did it. Sam, without recollecting the curate, or 
Lang and his father, or Lassiter and his board-meeting, 
fell under the great influence. And, after all, as Maud 
said, why should he go to Countershell? It was scarcely 
a definite engagement — certainly not an invitation from 
Cuddy. Cuddy never knew when his birthday was, unless 
someone told him; he would be as pleased to see Sam on 
any other day as that one. Violet, it is true, would expect 
his coming, unless she heard to the contrary; she would 


MAUD 


71 


know he was likely to be in England, though he had not 
yet written, for she would have traced his ship's course as 
well as she could, with the aid of a newspaper and an atlas 
in her geography lessons. But he could write to her and 
fix a time later on. 

“ If you write straight away," Maud said, “ you’ll have 
plenty of time to compose a suitable epistle and catch the 
morning post. I’ll leave you in peace; I’ve got crowds of 
things to do. You can have half an hour to yourself ; aft- 
erwards we’ll go out.’’ 

She left him, and he sat down to write. He was not per- 
fectly satisfied with his decision when he began; but he 
had considerable facility of expression on paper, and by 
the time he had finished he was better pleased. It took 
him some time, and when he had stamped and addressed 
the letter and scribbled two other short ones which had 
been waiting unanswered since he came to Grange Hall, it 
was post-time. He went out and gave the letters to the 
man who was waiting to go to the post, and then went to 
look for Maud. 

He did not find her; and after waiting about a little, 
asked a servant where she was. 

She had gone out with Mr. Lang, who came some twenty 
minutes ago. 

Sam was annoyed; for a moment he was unreasonably 
annoyed; then he recovered himself. He recognized his 
annoyance was not entirely unconnected with a feeling that 
he had sacrificed something to stay with Maud — not ex- 
actly Violet or his own conscience, but something; and she 
had overlooked the fact, and forgotten all about him and his 
staying. — And he had no right to expect anything differ- 
ent. He recognized that too now, more especially since the 
sacrifice, if sacrifice it was, had been made to please him- 
self really. He went to the stables; Maud and Lang were 
probably there. 


72 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


But they were not; so he went on to the home farm. 
There he heard they had been seen crossing a distant 
meadow. Feeling it useless to try and follow them fur- 
ther, he went back towards the house, and, encountering 
Jack and his nurse on the sunny path before the house, 
played with the child till he was taken in to his dinner. 

Lunch was at a quarter to two. Lassiter was in then, 
and declined to wait for anyone, so they began without 
Maud. She came in when they were half done, glowing 
with health and exercise, full of enthusiasm for some new 
greyhounds of Lang’s which she had been to see, and se- 
renely unconscious of having done anything which might 
require excuse or explanation. She asked about the 
hunter, inquired if Sam had caught the post with his let- 
ters, and if he had seen Jackie that morning, then went 
back to speak of Lang. 

“ He’s rather a young cub,” she admitted, when her hus- 
band indicated that that was his opinion. “ Still, he is 
young ; time will mend him. I do my little best to forward 
the good work. Don’t you think I am an education for 
any young man ? ” 

She turned to Sam, and he answered : “ Em — yes ; 
somewhat expensive for some, perhaps, though jolly 
enough.” 

“ That’s horrid of you ! ” she said. “ It sounds as if you 
meant something horrid.” 

“ I don’t,” he assured her, “ only — well, I wouldn’t give 
Lang too much of that education if I were you ; it may be 
a bit hard on him; besides, he might make mistakes as to 
what it meant.” 

“ How absurd ! ” she said. “ What an idea ! Why, 
you’re getting a grandmother, Sam ! To think of you com- 
ing to caution, and proper ideas and suspicions, and all 
that! I do believe you’re ageing! — I suppose I ought to 
be, too. Am I ageing?” She threw her arm round her 


MAUD 


73 


husband’s neck. “ Am I growing staid and correct and 
mindful of what I eat and who I speak to about what, 
Teddy? Is it your wish that I should try? ” 

“Try what you like,” Lassiter answered; “it’s sure to 
please me; but you might let me eat my cheese in peace.” 

She laughed, unwound her arm, and led the way to the 
smoking-room. 

“ Of course we are getting old,” she said thoughtfully, as 
she and Sam sat down by the fire. “ I shall never see thirty 
again, and you — Sam ! Do you realize how old you are ? ” 

“ At times,” he replied, “ when ladies I used to consider 
of my own generation point out that I am a grandmother.” 

“ You’re an old stupid,” she retorted, laughing. “ Seri- 
ously, though, we are getting quite old ; I realize it when I 
think of the Countershell days ; they seem such ages ago.” 

On another occasion she had said they seemed like yes- 
terday, and Sam did not remind her of the discrepancy, 
knowing both were true and the expression of the mood of 
the moment. She went on now to speak of Countershell. 
“ Do you know,” she confessed, “ I haven’t been for nearly 
seven years — only once since I was married, before Cuddy 
and Vie were settled there. It’s rather awful of me, isn’t 
it? I’ve always been meaning to go since she died, but 
somehow I’ve never got there. I shall have to make an ef- 
fort one day. I should like to see Cuddy and the old place 
again.” 

“You haven’t seen him lately, then?” 

“ Not for ages. I really believe the last time I saw him 
was when you were last home. It must be! I remember 
his saying you were over, or something. How long ago is 
that? Three years? Five and a half? Nonsense, it isn’t? 
I shall call it three and a half : it sounds better. — Three and 
a half years since I saw my own and only he-cousin, Cuth- 
bert Yarborough, and his daughter. She was with him on 
that occasion, I remember, a plain child with lanky legs and 


74 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


hair, and big eyes and no special eyelashes. I don't suppose 
she’s improved, poor kid ; there wasn’t much beauty for her 
to inherit. Not that that matters. She must have a glo- 
rious time at dear old Countershell, anyway. My son won’t 
have half such a youth.” 

She sighed, and spent a little time regretting that Jack 
could not be brought up at Countershell as she had been. 
From that she came to speak of old Mr. and Mrs. Yarbor- 
ough ; more especially Mrs., who had died last winter. 

“ It happened abroad,” she told Sam. “We weren’t with 
her, neither Cuddy nor I — we couldn’t get there soon 
enough. Enid was there, of course; she was with her at 
the time. Cuddy went out as quickly as he could, and 
stayed when he got there to see after things. I didn’t get 
the news in time to start with him, and my cable to know if 
I should follow missed or something, so I did not go after 
all. There wasn’t much point in my going when everything 
was over, just to be with Enid for a couple of weeks — I 
couldn’t well be away from home longer then, and she de- 
clined to come back with me, or Cuddy either. She had 
a host of friends out there; they had been there a long 
time, and were thoroughly in the English Colony, and she 
refused to face England at that time of year. I don’t blame 
her, do you ? How she always hated the cold ! ” 

“ Where is she now ? ” Sam asked. 

“ Italy somewhere ; she’s practically taken up her abode 
in Italy. She’s in a poor way; I was awfully struck when 
I saw her in February. Ted and I went over to Monte for 
a little while then. She was at Cannes; she went there 
with a spinsterish friend after auntie died, and we made her 
come over to us for a day. I was awfully struck with the 
change in her. Of course, she was never very strong, and 
she’s older than Cuddy, but she was absolutely middle-aged 
and nearly an invalid; I would never have known her. 
They don’t seem very tough, the Yarboroughs, do they? 


MAUD 


75 


Uncle and auntie being first cousins, Enid gets it both ways. 
I am devoutly thankful my branch married beneath him, as 
the saying is. My mother had a constitution even if, as we 
are assured, she had no aitches. There’s really a lot to be 
said for a mesalliance, properly conducted. I shan’t quar- 
rel irreparably with Jackie if he presents me with a hand- 
some dairymaid or seamstress — or chorus-girl, if he, not be- 
ing in the peerage, can get one — for a daughter-in-law.” 

“ I don’t believe you would quarrel with anyone for any- 
thing,” Sam said. “ You’re the most tolerant soul I ever 
knew — at least, in most ways.” 

“ What way not? ” she demanded. “ Of what am I intol- 
erant ? ” 

She broke off without waiting for an answer, for the 
puppy, who had been asleep before the fire, woke up here 
and bit her shoe. An interval followed in which she played 
with it, and it barked and yelped and scampered to and fro. 
When at length it settled down again — in her lap this time 
— she had forgotten what she had been talking of before 
the interruption occurred, and began to ask him about 
Countershell, and if there were many changes. 

“ I have not been there for five years,” he reminded her, 
but told her anything he could remember. 

“ The den made into a drawing-room ! ” she cried, when 
she heard that. “ How horrible ! And Cuddy’s old room a 
spare room? It must be frightfully inconvenient! ” 

“ It faces south, and is warmer than some of the rooms,” 
he said; and she stared. 

“ Do you mean they don’t have bedroom fires ? ” she 
asked. “ That poor Vie! It’s just like her! Fancy 
Cuddy keeping it up after she died! She must have been 
dead a whole year when you were there! One comfort, 
he’ll have got over it by this time.” 

“ I don’t know,” Sam said, for some reason feeling just a 
little jarred. “ He was trying to do what Vie would have 


76 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


wished when I saw him — to economize, and all that. I ex- 
pect he’s kept some of it up.” 

“ To economize? You don’t mean it? To live within 
his income ? How perfectly wonderful ! ” 

She seemed immensely struck. “ I suppose we ought to 
have tried it when we were at Countershell,” she said, after 
a little pause of interested reflection. “ Uncle or aunt or 
someone ought; but I’m a teeny wee bit glad we didn’t, 
aren’t you ? ” 

Sam did not say. He found it easy to be at one with 
Maud ; he always had found it so, though some part of him 
did not quite feel in perfect accord now. 

She did not wait for him to answer, but went on to ask 
about other things — details of the economies and rules of 
the house. “ The dogs,” she said — “ I suppose Vie would 
not have them indoors ? It’s no use your telling me Cuddy 
kept to that rule for even a year after her death.” 

“ They were allowed in the house when I was there,” 
Sam said, “ though not in the drawing-room, except under 
special circumstances, and never on the chairs.” 

Maud groaned. “ Poor Countershell ! To think of its 
coming to that ! ” 

“ It’s not so hard on one’s dress trousers,” Sam sug- 
gested. 

She took him up contemptuously. “ Dress trousers ! ” 
she scoffed. “ What’re they to a dog?” She lifted the 
inert puppy and addressed it. “ My precious ! He thinks 
more of his trousers than he does of an angel dog like you ! 
He’s getting to be a dreadful, stuffy, fussy old maid — bach- 
elor, I mean! Seriously, Sam,” — she turned to him with 
earnestness — “ you are showing symptoms. You’ll have to 
be careful, or you’ll find yourself prim and stuffy and nar- 
row.” 

“Sorry,” Sam said; then added thoughtfully, “I’m not 
perfectly sure, though, that narrowness and all that haven’t 


MAUD 


77 

some use. Nature unadorned, life unrestrained, enjoy- 
yourself-and-blow-the-consequences, is all very well, es- 
pecially for the party who does the enjoying, but every now 
and then it lands the whole caboozelam in a very tight place ; 
and always and all along the line somebody’s got to clear 
up the pieces, fill up the gaps, and pay for the game — most 
usually someone who hasn’t had much of a show in the play 
part of it.” 

“ Bosh ! ” was Maud’s comment. “ You’re talking bosh, 
Sammy, my friend. Philosophical comments and moral re- 
flections are not your metier , and they certainly are not 
mine. Let’s go and rouse my sluggardly husband ; he must 
have got over his lunch by this time. We’ll make him come 
with us to the wood to talk to Johnson and hear about the 
pheasants.” 

They roused him, and he came with them to the wood and 
the keeper. And the next day they went with him to see 
the hunter he had already seen, and also another one; 
some forty miles in the car and home another way, which 
someone said was shorter, but which turned out to be longer. 
Not that that mattered ; miles more or less are of no conse- 
quence to a motor. And being in or out, or returning or 
doing anything at any given time, was of no consequence at 
Grange Hall. 

Sam stayed till Friday morning, and Maud herself drove 
him to the station when he left. She and Lassiter were not 
starting till after lunch, and she said she should have time 
to go to the station and back before that. Sam entreated 
her not to trouble ; he knew she would have a great hurry if 
she did ; but she insisted that she would see him off. So she 
did, driving part of the way herself. Part they walked, 
climbing a deep old lane, while the groom took the cart 
round by the longer and less hilly new road. 

There were trails of briony and crimson leaves in the lane 
hedge, Maud was enraptured with them and the colour of 


78 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


the hedgegrows. She declared she must have some briony, 
and climbed the steep loamy bank to reach it. She slipped 
into the ditch at the foot once, and, when she had climbed 
out again, commanded Sam to hold her up while she reached 
for the leaves. He did as he was told, getting a precarious 
foothold on the bank and supporting her with both arms. 
They presented a curious sight, for she was bigger than he ; 
rather a compromising sight, too, seeing she was fast in his 
arms, her head tilted back till her hair brushed his face. 
But no one came by to see, and he made no mistake about 
her ; rather, he felt he was trusted in spite of what had hap- 
pened long ago, and was touched by it and proud of it. 
There had been a day, years ago at Countershell, when he 
held her like that while she reached for primroses growing 
among old roots in a bank above her head. She was a girl 
then, and he little more than a boy; he had held her with 
beating heart and thrilling pulses, till, suddenly she turned 
her face up towards his, when he had kissed her on the lips. 
And she — she had not been angry. They had walked home 
through the wood together that day, the world at the spring. 
But springs pass ; it was only a memory now, a delicate and 
very pleasant one, though a memory only. He was not 
tempted to do any such thing to-day, either for her own sake 
or the sake of the memory of long ago. But he was glad 
she let him hold her, and he felt the glamour of her — she 
was herself, there was no other like her. 

She reached the briony at last, gathered it, completely ab- 
sorbed in what she was doing, and wound it triumphantly 
about her arm as they returned to the dog-cart. 

The briony-getting delayed them a good deal. By the 
time they had climbed into the cart there was but a short 
while left for the rest of the drive. They had to go at a 
great pace, and even then only reached the station in time 
for Sam to spring ticketless into the train as it started. He 
just managed to do it, and Maud shouted congratulations to 


MAUD 


79 


him as the train moved out of the station. He stood at the 
carriage window to answer her and to see the last of her, 
waving her hand and dropping leaves and berries on the 
platform about her. 

He did not really expect to hear from her again soon, 
though he found himself rather looking for it. There are 
some people so vivid that, after leaving them, one finds one- 
self unconsciously looking to hear from them, see them or 
find some trace of them, remaining if not recurring. Maud 
was of that sort, and Sam found himself waiting, if not ex- 
pecting, to hear from her, in a way that was absurd, even a 
little disconcerting. As it happened he did hear before so 
very long. 

In fulfilment of a promise, made while he was at Grange 
Hall, he sent her the skin of a leopard he had shot while he 
was in Africa. He did not altogether expect she would ac- 
knowledge the receipt of it. Though she was delighted with 
any gift made her, the smallest as well as the greatest, and 
always touched by the thought so shown, she did not by any 
means always write to tell the sender so. On this occasion, 
however, she did. She caught a cold while away for the 
week end, and had to come straight home instead of going 
to town as she had intended. She had nursed it for two 
days; gone out with someone, made it worse, and had to 
nurse again. During the last part of the dull time she 
wrote the letter: she wrote two letters, and posted them at 
the same time. This is the one Sam received : 

“ My Dear Friend, 

“Don’t tear your hair. You behaved badly, I quite 
agreed with you , caddishly even; but it is silly to rave about 
it — that mends nothing. I approve the idea of your going 
away. I should think it was the best thing you could do. 
Of course we shall miss you , but we must look forward to 
your return with a fortune and all the rest of it. As to 


80 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


your coming to bid me good-bye, 1 don’t quite know what 
to say ; perhaps, if you promise to behave. 

“I think I understand how it happened. If I had not 
asked you to prop me up while I got the blackberries you 
would not have forgotten yourself as you did. Anyhow I’m 
going to believe that’s how it happened, and put it out of 
my head. You had better do likewise, and when you are 
really starting for Australia come and say good-bye to your 
chum, 

“ Maud Lassiter." 

A post or two later Sam received another letter, directed 
to him at his club; a short letter enclosing a longer one. 
The longer one was from Maud; the shorter ran as fol- 
lows : 

" Dear Bailey, 

“Accompanying, apparently meant for you, got to me 
by mistake. If Lady Lassiter wrote to me and you’ve got 
it, please let me have it by return, as I am going to Aus- 
tralia almost immediately, Yours truly, 

George W. Lang / 7 

Sam read the letter through. Then he got out the earlier 
one he had received from Maud; he had not returned it, it 
hardly seemed suitable to do so without consideration. He 
spread it out now, and Lang’s letter also. 

“ This," he said, “ wants thinking about." 

He looked at them a long second, then — “ On the whole, 
thinking about is what it does not want." 

He put Maud’s first letter in an envelope, and addressed 
it to Lang. Then he took her second, glanced through it, 
and put it in the fire. 

“ Cremation meets some cases better than a funeral,’’ 
was his opinion. “ And this time, ‘ no flowers, by re- 
quest.’ " 


CHAPTER IV 
VIOLET 

V IOLET had grown; she had grown a great deal; she 
was as tall as Sam, if not taller, but he had no difficulty 
in recognizing her when he went to pay the deferred visit to 
Countershell. There was the same light hair, the same earn- 
est, straight, regarding grey eyes and serious expression. 
He recognized her before the train stopped, and before she 
caught sight of him. When she did so her face lighted up; 
she sprang forward and had the carriage door open and her 
hands on his belongings before the porter could be there. 
“Violet J. ! ” he exclaimed ; “ what a Goliath you are ! ” 
She laughed. “ And I’m still growing,” she said ; “ I 
shall be as tall as father before I’ve done, or taller.” 

“ A young lady already,” Sam said. “ I left a little kid, 
I find a young lady.” 

“I shall be sixteen in December,” she told him — “ that is 
really grown-up. 

" Father’s not here,” she explained, leading the way out. 
“ There was a special meeting of the hospital committee to- 
day ; there have been rows about the nurse, and they wanted 
everyone to be there, so it seemed as if he ought to go. 
You won’t mind me driving you home, will you? Father 
will come later; someone ’ll bring him part of the way.” 

Sam said he did not mind, and they went to the stables, 
where she had put up after taking her father to the hos- 
pital. They found the dog-cart ready; she had announced 
what time she would be back, and was there to the minute. 
She looked under the seat before getting in, to see if all 

81 


82 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


the things she had ordered before going to the station had 
been sent for. 

“ We shall have to stop at the grocer’s,” she said ; “ his 
parcel hasn’t come.” 

“ Are you housekeeper ? ” Sam asked. 

She nodded, and, climbing in, took the reins, and the 
horse — a powerful, raw-boned chestnut, with no preten- 
tions to beauty — started. After stopping at the grocer’s to 
pick up the parcel, they took the homeward road. It was 
still mid-autumn here, the season lingered late in this part. 
Hedges and trees in many places were still golden, although 
it was November; river sedges were full of feathery seed 
tassels, meadows very green, and the ploughland richly 
brown — the whole tenderly soft, though clear, and shot with 
gleams of yellow sunlight. 

“ When I die,” Sam said, “ and am asked by the Arch- 
angel what kind of heaven I should prefer, I shall choose 
one like Countershell.” 

“ Will you ? ” Violet said, turning eagerly. “ So shall I. 

At least Do you think we shall be able to? Do you 

think there will be a heaven just like this, and that we shall 
be able to ” 

“ Have what we like — make it what we please ? ” he said. 
“ Why not? We are told — and from observation I am in- 
clined to think there may be something in the opinion — that 
it is possible, even very easy, to manufacture a hell for ex- 
clusive and personal use ; why not a heaven ? ” 

She was a little doubtful. “ It would be nice if it were 
true,” she said, and looked round the wide landscape with a 
love which was too much part of herself to have either the 
need or power of expression. 

They drove on in silence for a little, passing by the edge 
of a little wood where the road was drifted with fallen 
leaves that rustled about the horse’s feet. Beyond was a 
gamekeeper’s cottage, a thin spiral of smoke ascending from 


VIOLET 


83 


it, the garden still gay with late blooming flowers, all very 
beautiful and pleasant, smelling with damp autumn fra- 
grances. 

“ I’m sorry I did not come on Cuddy’s birthday,” Sam said 
suddenly. 

“You couldn’t,” she said. The letter had carried con- 
viction to her on reading, as well as to the writer on writ- 
ing, but he corrected the impression now. 

“ I could,” he said — “ I could if I had made up my mind 
to.” 

“Yes?” she said. “I suppose you didn’t want to 
enough ? ” 

“ I don’t know that it was that, either,” he answered re- 
flectively. “ I did want to ; almost directly after I had writ- 
ten I wished I hadn’t ; and on and off afterwards I wished 
I had gone instead of staying. I had a suspicion the whole 
time that I should have liked better to have been here than 
there.” 

She nodded sagely. “ That’s just how I feel,” she said, 
“ when I’m doing what I want instead of what I feel I 
ought. It spoils it, so you might just as well do what you 
ought to begin with, and be comfortable about it.” 

Sam was not gratified by this explanation of his symp- 
toms. “ Wrong again,” he said. “ My conscience, old and 
sere, does not work with such uneasy energy. I am more 
like the gentlemen who called on Circe : ' In the luxurious 
feast themselves they lost , And dark oblivion of their na- 
tive coast / I forgot I wanted to come here, certainly 
would have forgotten I ought, if there had been any ought 
about it, which there wasn’t. The near thing was the big 
thing; to-day’s thing shut out yesterday’s and to-morrow’s, 
they and all else were forgotten.” 

“ Yes,” Violet said thoughtfully, “ you were with Aunt 
Maud. When I was a little girl I used to think she was like 
that — she forgot and made other people forget. — Circe was 


84? CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


the person in the tale who turned the lovers into swine, 
wasn’t she ? Why did she do it ? ” 

“ I suppose she liked them better that way ; some women 
do.” Sam was not inclined to pursue the subject either of 
Maud or Circe. “Hulloa!” he said. “ What have we 
here ? A new house ? ” 

They were passing some new cottages — commodious, 
cross-timbered structures, built in picturesque style and the 
best manner. 

“ Has your parent come into a fortune? ” he asked. “ I 
noticed some handsome new gates and marvellous trim 
hedges a little back, but these are another thing — they mean 
money.” 

“ The houses aren’t father’s,” Violet said ; “ they belong 
to Mr. Burbidge. He built them.” 

Sam glanced round. They were within the bound of the 
Countershell land, or what was the bound when he was here 
last. It had shrunk since he could remember — shrunk, of 
course, much before that. A hundred years ago the Yar- 
boroughs had been large landowners; fifty years ago still 
considerable, though diminishing. Twenty-five years they 
were only very moderate ones, with that moderate quantity 
decreasing fast — a bit here and a bit there relinquished 
throughout the lifetime of Cuddy’s father. At his death 
some small part had still remained to his son ; and in spite 
of embarrassments and difficulties it had been retained, 
partly by the good management and generosity of his wife, 
and partly because it really had very little selling value. 
When Sam had been at Countershell five years ago the prop- 
erty, diminished though it was, had stretched beyond where 
the new cottages now stood. 

“ Has Cuddy sold it? ” Sam asked. 

“ Yes,” Violet said; “ Mr. Burbidge wanted to have it 
for his own. He wanted cottages for his gardeners and 
people to live in ; there weren’t any in the village — some of 


VIOLET 


85 


the old ones have tumbled right down, and some of those 
that are left are not very safe These aren’t very near to 
his house, certainly, but they are nearer than the village 
and much better. I think he is going to build a few more, so 
that some of the village people can go and live in them if 
they like.” 

“ They won’t like, if I know anything of them,” Sam said. 
“ At all events, some of them won’t. There are some peo- 
ple in that village who’d sooner die in a Yarborough house 
than live in another, more especially if the windows of the 
other opened and there were more bedrooms than they were 
used to.” 

Violet agreed as one who knows something of such a pe- 
culiarity. “ All the same,” she said, “ it would be better for 
them if they did move. The houses in the village are very 
bad, and it doesn’t seem as if we could ever get them 
mended. Father thought perhaps he’d be able to mend 
some with the money he got from Mr. Burbidge for the 
land ; but there wasn’t enough. There were debts and mort- 
gages and things, I don’t understand quite what, but they 
took most of the money, and did not get all paid, I think. 
Then a man wanted him to buy a horse. He was hard up, 
and father bought it to help him. He thought we’d be able 
to sell it again at a profit, but we didn’t.” 

Cuddy and his childishly optimistic efforts were not new 
to Sam, but they struck him now as almost pathetic; for a 
moment quite pathetic in the light of Violet, with serious 
face and puckered brow, driving one of the successions of 
bad investments through the shabby old gateway of Counter- 
shell. 

Harrison came to the door to meet them. Punch, too old 
now to trouble himself, merely barked a welcome from the 
study where he lay by the fire. 

They had tea in the study. The days of drawing-room 
teas were apparently over. The study was tidier than when 


86 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


Sam last saw it, though it was, clearly, still the favourite 
living-room of the house. Cuddy’s papers were sorted in 
neat piles on the desk, their entire uselessness the more ap- 
parent by reason of the operation. Fishing-tackle and car- 
tridges were each in a separate receptacle, easy to hand but 
not mixed with each other or with other still more unsuit- 
able articles. There were pipes on the mantelpiece, Cuddy’s 
slippers under a chair, and a work-basket on a table with 
needlework bulging out of it. There were also fresh 
flowers in glasses between the pipes, and no dust on the 
table, and the corner of the old rug beneath the chair had 
been mended so that the foot no longer caught in it. 

Sam drew up to the fire. “ Jane,” he said as he looked 
round, “ I add an addenda to my heaven selection. I add 
this room, this light, this fire, this time of day and year. 
The present company might, perhaps, also be thrown in.” 

She laughed, and stretched her long limbs in ungainly 
ease on the rug. “ It is jolly,” she said. “ I’m glad you 
like it — I’m glad you’ve come.” 

“ So am I,” he answered, “ and duly grateful, seeing that 
I was such a donkey as not to come before when I might 
have done.” 

The last was, perhaps, hardly addressed to her — at all 
events she did not answer it. “ I’ll make toast,” she said, 
“ and we’ll be a long while over tea. Father and I are al- 
ways a long while over tea when we are very comfortable 
and happy.” 

They were a long while, they had not really finished, or 
at least had not moved, when Cuddy came home; earlier 
rather than his daughter had expected, as Mr. Burbidge 
brought him in his car, going out of the way to do it in an 
obliging fashion. 

Cuddy was stouter than he used to be, and moved more 
slowly: at the best he had not been much more rapid of 
body than mind, now he was almost ponderous. Other- 


VIOLET 


87 


wise he had not altered; his round face was as young as 
ever, only a little whiter, as if he were less in the weather 
than formerly. 

“ He is getting fearfully lazy,” his daughter said. “ I 
have a lot of trouble with him.” 

Sam heard her having trouble early the next morning, 
when he was roused by her efforts to induce her father to 
come for a ride before breakfast. 

“ It’s quite a fine morning,” Sam heard her say “ Misty ? 
— Yes, but the mist’s all full of little crinkles of light. 
When it’s real daylight, it’ll be lovely. Get up! — You 
know you ought to ride every day ; you’re getting so fat. — 
No, I’m not dressed yet, but I will be as soon as you are. — 
Well, five minutes more then, I’ve got to saddle. — Not 
more than five minutes, mind.” 

Sam dressed and went out to help her saddle. The boy, 
she explained, was generally late in coming, and Walters, 
the man, being rheumatic, did not come before breakfast 
these damp days. 

It was, as Cuddy had protested, a misty morning, not yet 
really light, though everything gleaming; bluish as yet, ex- 
cept where it was white with a dew which was nearly hoar- 
frost. The tops of things, the rounded lumps on the gate- 
posts, the last red leaves of the creeper high on the south 
wall, and the broken vane on the stable roof, were already 
shining with first-caught light. 

They saddled, and Sam mounted Violet, though it was an 
unnecessary attention, she needing no assistance; her legs 
were long, and she still rode astride as in her childhood. 
They went round to the house-front, Violet leading her 
father’s horse. There they waited a moment, the horses 
pawing among the coloured chestnut leaves that covered the 
ground. Violet called up to a window over the door; but 
there was no answer. 

“ Let’s send him a notice,” Sam said, and, dropping to 


88 CUDDY YARBOROUGH'S DAUGHTER 

the ground, found a fallen chestnut among the acid-smelling 
leaves. He threw it deftly and not too hard against the 
window-pane. 

“ All right, I’m coming,” Cuddy’s voice called from 
within. 

“ Give me one to throw,” Violet said when the speaker 
did not immediately follow his words. 

Sam found her three and she threw them vigorously. 
The first went wide and broke from the force of the blow 
on the wall, the second went through one of the small panes 
of the window. 

“ Good shot ! ” Sam said. “ There’s no doubt about it, 
you get home when you do do it. Got him again ! ” The 
third chestnut went through another pane. “ Cuddy,” Sam 
shouted, “ you’d better be quick or your daughter ’ll break 
up the home ! ” 

Cuddy looked out and soon after came down, and they 
rode out into the open country where everything was strange 
and beautiful in lifting mist. They galloped on the short 
turf, Cuddy protesting, but over-ruled by his horse and his 
daughter; then, more slowly trotted by lanes, miry under 
banks at the edges but crisp in the centre, where a breath of 
frost had stiffened the mud. There was a gate at the end 
of the lane ; as a matter of course, Violet stooped to open it, 
and was surprised to be forestalled by Sam as one unused 
to such attention. By it they came on to the road through 
the village and home past cottages of flint and thatch, pic- 
turesque in the clean early light, but undeniably in need of 
repairs, with sagging roofs and crooked chimneys from 
which the smoke of morning fires ascended unsteadily. 

After breakfast Violet attended to her duties as house- 
keeper, but they did not keep her long, and a little after ten 
the governess came. It was the same governess who used 
to come when Sam was last at Countershell. He had not 
seen her then, but he met her at lunch to-day, and found her 


VIOLET 


89 


a well-educated and refined woman of five or six and thirty, 
with the shrinking from men which sometimes characterizes 
sensitive women whose personal or family experience of the 
sex has not been fortunate. Sam could not make up his 
mind which of the two, she or Cuddy, was the more afraid 
of the other, or to which the compulsory lunch at Counter- 
shell was the more of an ordeal. By this time, of course, 
Violet lent some relief to proceedings, but both were still 
far from happy in spite of her. Sam was a welcome assist- 
ance to-day. He and Miss Grant conversed together po- 
litely on several things — the condition of the roads, which 
was certainly bad for a gentlewoman who had to walk four 
miles a day and felt the necessity of economy and also of 
looking presentable at the end of the walk. — On literature, 
Miss Grant’s taste lay in the direction of the lighter essay- 
writers, with a preference in novelists for Thackeray and 
Meredith and George Eliot, with a selection from the more 
serious and refined living authors added. Sam, last time he 
was in England, had found Cuddy trying to read “ The 
Egoist,” with a hazy idea, derived from Miss Grant’s re- 
marks, that it was a book cultivated people read, and that 
consequently a man, better fitted by nature to train dogs 
than daughters, would do well to improve his mind with. 
Sam wondered if he still pursued his laborious course, and 
shortly discovered that he did not. No doubt he had come 
to the conclusion that Violet was old enough now to do her 
own reading; and Miss Grant appeared to be of the same 
mind. She left a volume of George Eliot for her when she 
went away after lunch. 

She left directly after lunch, Cuddy going with alacrity to 
see if the pony-tub was ready for her. He was always very 
solicitous, not to say eager, to go and do that, but never 
omitted to also politely see her to it — a punctiliousness for- 
eign to Sam’s experience of the Yarboroughs, who were not 
much given to thinking of small things. Violet apparently 


90 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


was; she to-day thought of grapes for Miss Grant’s young 
sister, a girl at the end of a long convalescence which had 
outlasted most people’s interest, but still kept the sufferer 
weak and fanciful. Mr. Burbidge, whose head-gardener 
had orders to produce grapes all the year round, had sent a 
present of some to Countershell that morning. Violet se- 
lected the finest bunch, packed it carefully, and Miss Grant, 
with a flush of pleasure, took it for her sister when she 
drove away. 

“ Now I must mend the window,” Violet said when the 
pony-tub had gone ; “ the one in father’s room that I broke. 
Brown paper will do, don’t you think? ” 

“ There is a prejudice in favour of glass,” Sam told her. 

“ I can’t put glass in,” she said. 

“ I can,” he said, “ if I can find some putty. We ought 
to be able to do that, unless the place is sadly deteriorated. 
Cuddy, has the potting-shed behind the old hen-house fallen 
down ? ” 

“No. Why?” Curry asked, startled. He had not been 
attending ; he often did not. “ Who said it had ? ” 

“ No one,” Sam assured him. “ I wanted to know, that’s 
all. I want some putty. There used to be some on the 
shelf at the back, behind the old bee-skips, beyond the empty 
paraffin drums.” 

“Will it be there now?” Violet asked doubtfully. 

“ Of course,” Sam said, “ since the shed has not fallen 
down. Ten years or so is nothing — a watch in the night in 
the life-story of a potting-shed where no one seeks to do 
any spring-cleaning, and the spiders and everything else are 
at rest. Come along ; you don’t half know the resources of 
this property.” 

Sam found the putty in the same place where it had al- 
ways been, untouched for years, and hard as sun-baked clay 
with age. It had to be broken fine with a hammer before 
anything could be done with it. Cuddy was set to do that 


VIOLET 


91 


while Violet found oil to make it workable when it should 
be broken, and Sam removed some sound panes of glass 
from the ruins of a collapsed greenhouse. The pieces were 
too large for the small panes of the bedroom window, so he 
cut them to fit with a diamond stud of old Mr. Yarbor- 
ough’s which Cuddy produced on demand. 

Violet watched with great interest, and with equal in- 
terest watched the deft fitting in of the glass. 

“ Do you think I could do it? ” she asked. “ I shall try. 
There’s a window in Mrs. Mole’s cottage which has been 
broken for weeks. I shall try to mend that to-morrow/’ 
She watched Sam secure the glass with softened putty. 
“ You are clever, Samuel,” she said with admiration. “ Can 
you do other things — mend a roof or do up a wall ? I sup- 
pose you could not build a whole house ? ” 

“ I’ve had a share in building several,” Sam answered. 
“ Whenever I’m moved to a new station in the benighted 
continent of Africa, the first thing I have to do usually is to 
build a new house, the old one being either already knocked 
down by the inclemency of the weather or so devoured by 
ants as to be about to be knocked down. By the time I am 
retired or eaten, Africa will be dotted over with desirable 
villa residences, pitched within and without like Noah’s ark, 
and roofed with beams of cedar in the taste of Solomon, all 
of the designing and construction of S. Bailey, Esq.” 

“ Your construction ! ” Cuddy said derisively. “ You 
stand by while the niggers do it, I bet ! ” 

“ Takes a deal more than standing by to make a nigger 
build a European — or even a half-bred — what might be 
called a Europoniggian house,” Sam retorted. “ V. J. pay 
no attention to your father. I am a builder of houses, 
though I own I have had difficulties with roofs.” 

“ So’ve I,” Cuddy said ; “ I had a new ’un put on an old 
cottage down the village — old Porter’s hovel, you know ; the 
old chap’s living with his daughter-in-law next door now. 


92 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


The bally thing collapsed as soon as the new roof was on, 
the walls caved in under it before it was paid for. By the 
way, 1 don’t believe it’s paid for yet.” 

A troubled look passed over Violet’s face, but she only 
said : “ Roofs are rather difficult, I expect, especially on 
flint walls.” 

Sam agreed with her, and she went on to speak of the 
cottages of Burbidge’s erection which were of brick. 
“ When they were being built I did a bit,” she told him. “ I 
was looking at them one day and asking the men about it 
when Mr. Burbidge came along, and he let them show me 
how they did it, and then try myself when I wanted to. I 
did a piece about so long ” 

She measured a space with her arms, and Sam guessed 
that it was more than Mr. Burbidge had expected. 

Later that afternoon she spoke of the matter again, and 
of the condition of the cottages in the village, which, clearly, 
was much on her mind. 

“ It doesn’t seem as if we could do anything really,” she 
said. “ I’ve thought and thought about it. I can’t build a 
house, or even patch one, and it costs such an awful lot to 
hire men who are any good, and cheap patches come off or 
break away the old.” 

Sam agreed ; not that he had had much experience — cer- 
tainly Countershell had not in the early days of his ac- 
quaintance with it. 

“ This house itself wants patching,” Violet said. 
“ Though that doesn’t matter so much ; we can live in the 
part that’s all right. Still, the damp does come in on the 
south side of the attics, and the cowshed’s all to 
pieces.” 

“ The cowshed is more within the range of my abilities,” 
Sam said. “ Let us inspect it. With a little wood, a little 
plaster, and a great deal of tar we may be able to make some- 
thing of it, even if not quite a respectable official residence 


VIOLET 


as such is understood in some of His Majesty’s domains.” 

“ Let’s go now,” Violet said, with the eagerness of one 
glad to have a general feeling brought to a particular point. 
To examine and mend the cowshed would not touch the 
general sense of decay or meet the universal need for re- 
pairs, but it offered something in the right direction which 
might be done. 

They examined the cowshed that afternoon, and next day 
began the repairs. Sam was designer and chief workman, 
Violet and Walters assistants, the first so much more ener- 
getic and interested than the second, as to be nearly as use- 
ful in spite of lack of skill. Cuddy did not do much beyond 
acquiesce with approval, and sit on an upturned barrel in 
the doorway, and smoke while the work went forward. 
Violet forced a tar brush on him once, and he did a little 
tarring, splashing himself a good deal. She splashed her- 
self even more when she tarred; she was too much in ear- 
nest to consider her clothes or appearance. 

They spent some laborious days on the cowshed; in the 
end making it weather-proof, if not especially neat. Miss 
Grant did not come during that time ; Violet voted herself a 
holiday. Some friend had invited Miss Grant’s convales- 
cent young sister for a visit, but wished Miss Grant to ac- 
company her if possible. Violet said it was possible. 

“ We can have shorter Christmas holidays,” she said, 
“ and I can go on with my French and music alone, and do 
arithmetic with Samuel in the evenings.” 

So it was arranged, and she practised conscientiously. 
She had neither ear nor taste for music ; but Cuddy, having 
a vague idea that it was part of a girl’s education, she learnt 
and practised patiently. The French she studied of an 
afternoon, when it was too dark to work at the cowshed. 
The studying required much application to the dictionary, 
for her French, like her music, was more painstaking than 
inspired. The arithmetic was done of an evening after 


94 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


dinner, with Sam to set problems or share them — interesting 
problems which concerned colossal fortunes accumulating 
at compound interest or derived from a strange variety of 
sources, and subject to startling fluctuations on the Stock 
Exchange; or else questions as to the cost of building 
houses, palaces, or whole streets of villas. There was much 
talk one evening about the cost of hearth tiles, and a sum to 
be worked out; another as to the cubic content of the cis- 
terns used in a block of flats, and the number of men, sober 
and drunk, necessary for the building. Cuddy was invited 
to set problems too, but his were either unanswerable or 
else too easy. He could not even suggest a good account to 
be balanced ; he got the prices of everything so wrong, that 
it was unsatisfactory to the serious-minded. 

The arithmetic evenings were very happy — Sam enjoyed 
them much, so did Violet ; and the cowshed days, too. Still, 
mild days they were, with misty mornings and sunny mid- 
days and lingering twilights, with just a bite of frost in the 
air, and long sunsets which made the wide land wistfully 
beautiful in grey and gold. 

Sam saw a good deal of Violet even when the cowshed was 
finished, for they rode and walked together. Sometimes 
Cuddy came with them ; more often he did not. 

“ You go without me,” he would say. “ I’m a lazy chap 
these days. V.J.’s long legs don’t keep my pace.” 

Or, “I don’t ride so light as I used — not that I was ever 
what you’d call a feather-weight. You two go and shake 
your livers and risk your necks without me.” 

And they went ; to old places long ago familiar to Sam ; 
to others less known. To small woods tucked in the folds 
of the open marshland; to the river mouth and the wide 
sand dunes shifting winds had piled there — all Violet’s 
favourite haunts. And on their return Cuddy would 
saunter out to meet them, inquiring where they had been, 
and what they had done, and who they had seen— if they 


VIOLET 


95 


had seen anybody. And then they would have tea together 
in the study in the firelight, sitting long over it and talking. 

On Sunday they went to church, as they did when Sam 
was at Countershell last. Violet sat between him and her 
father as she did then, and found the latter’s places, and 
woke him at the end of the sermon, just as she did. And in 
the afternoon, after tea, they had Bible reading, as they 
used, though now she did not “ explain ” as she used as a 
child, only read aloud, in a clear young voice, psalms or 
chapters from the Gospels. 

There was one important expedition made while Sam was 
at Countershell ; it was not far — only to Denham in fact — 
but it was important, for it was to get a party dress for 
Violet. 

Violet’s birthday was on December 29. She would be 
sixteen on that date, and it was decided the occasion ought 
to be celebrated. Sam had a good deal to do with the de- 
cision, or at all events with the origination of the idea, Cuddy 
being little given to either mental exercise. 

“ Ina Burbidge had a party on her sixteenth birthday,” 
Violet said, when the subject was discussed. “ I went to it 
last winter. It was not big ; there aren’t many people to ask 
about here ; but it was very nice.” 

“ Why not a party for you ? ” Sam suggested. 

Cuddy looked dubious. “ Oh, I say, Jane ! ” he protested. 

But Violet said ruthlessly, “ I’d like it — if there are 
enough people to be asked.” 

“ Heaps,” Sam said. “ Twelve’s a party ; you can easily 
find twelve. It’s no go, Cuddy; your daughter is going to 
have a party, and you’re too fat to look touchingly afflicted. 
Go and get pencil and paper to make a list of the 
guests.” 

“ Oh, I say ! ” Cuddy protested again, but he went for the 
pencil and paper. 

Violet looked after him doubtfully. “ Ought we to have 


96 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


it ? ” she said. “ Perhaps I’d better not. He doesn’t want 
it — though, certainly, it is good for him to see people some- 
times. Father ! ” — as he came back — “ do you mind very 
much ? ” 

“ Not if Sam’ll come down and see us through,” Cuddy 
said. 

“ Of course, I’m coming,” Sam said ; “ put me down first. 
Now, who else? Miss Burbidge?” 

“ Yes, and Muriel, that’s the other one, and Frank, he’s 
their brother, just a little bit older, very polite. Then 
there’s the two at the Rectory.” Violet halted, a little un- 
certain, and Sam inquired: 

“ Two what ? Has the rector developed sons and daugh- 
ters in his old age ? ” 

She shook her head. “ They’re pupils or nephews — 
one’s studying to be a clergyman, the other’s his brother. 
They’re rather shy, but I expect they’d come.” 

Cuddy put them down and, at Sam’s suggestion, Miss 
Grant and her young sister, who might be expected to be 
quite well by that time. He himself added a boy from the 
same family, a cousin who spent his holidays with the 
Grants, and was sometimes asked to come rabbiting at 
Countershell. 

“ Decent young chap,” Cuddy said ; “ we’ll ask him.” He 
was beginning to warm to the idea, and was soon assenting 
to everything Sam and Violet said about charades and danc- 
ing, and using the long room at the back of the house be- 
cause there was more space there than in the drawing- 
room. It was Sam who spoke of charades and dancing — he 
had all the ideas of that sort ; Violet who spoke of the long 
room and the time of supper and similar things. 

“ I haven’t got anything very nice to wear,” she remem- 
bered, when everything else was settled. “ I wore my sum- 
mer dress at Ina’s party last year, but I’ve grown right out 
of it now. I wonder if it could be altered ? ” 


VIOLET 97 

“ No,” Sam said decidedly ; “ this is an Occasion, you 
must have a new dress.” 

“ Do you think I might have one ? It’ll be rather ex- 
pensive, I’m afraid.” 

“ Not if I choose it,” he assured her. “ I’m an astonish- 
ingly economical shopper. If your aunts were to choose it 
I dare say it would be expensive ; not if I do.” 

“ They don’t get my clothes now,” she said. “ Miss Lee 
— she lives just off the High Street, you know — makes 
things when I want them. She made this.” 

“ Then she had better make that,” Sam said. “ Let’s all 
go and see her about it.” 

Cuddy readily agreed. “ We’ll drive in to-morrow after- 
noon and get something smart,” he said. “J ane an d I al- 
ways go along together to get clo’, don’t we, Jane? I’m a 
regular dab at that sort of thing.” 

They went the next afternoon, driving to Denham and 
putting up there, as they were likely to be long over their 
business. At Miss Lee’s they nearly filled the small upper 
room where she received clients, and, behind modestly 
drawn lace curtains, “ tried on ” when that rite was neces- 
sary. There was no trying on that afternoon, but she was 
nevertheless a trifle embarrassed, though by that time she 
should have been used to Cuddy’s coming with Violet. In 
a sense they did count as one customer in her eyes ; but she 
was always a little discomposed, partly because he was Mr. 
Yarborough of Countershell, and partly because she could 
not get accustomed to the intrusion of his large masculine 
presence into the feminine seclusion of her house and pro- 
fession. The addition of Sam to the party fluttered her a 
good deal at first, though afterwards she approved it. His 
small size and sympathetic, almost intelligent, interest, she 
found reassuring, and he looked at fashion-books in what 
she described as quite a lady-like way. In a little she not 
only got used to the party, but rose to the important occa^ 


98 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


sion, and advised about the dress almost authoritatively. 
Certainly their taste needed some guiding : Cuddy’s lay in 
the directon of the gorgeous ; Sam’s was nebulous, the kind 
that does not discriminate between colours in costumes ; and 
Violet had little dress instinct. Miss Lee took the matter 
over, and advised and recommended as decisively as her un- 
assertive nature allowed; and they accepted her recom- 
mendations, except those which Violet said would come too 
expensive. And if the result was somewhat suggestive of 
its place of origin and originators, none of them saw any- 
thing amiss with it. 

“ You’ll be resplendent, Jane, there’s no doubt about it,” 
Sam said when, the interview finished and the various neces- 
sary purchases made, they were eating Bath buns at the 
pastry-cooks. They always had Bath buns, Violet said, 
when they went to Miss Lee’s in the afternoon, because they 
never got home in time for tea. They had buns that day 
and then drove home, talking about the dress and the pros- 
pective party, and arranging what must be done; notably, 
arranging on what date Sam should return. He was leav- 
ing in a few days to go to his brother in Edinburgh, with 
whom he would remain over Christmas; afterwards he 
promised to come back and to arrive at least one day before 
the party. 


CHAPTER V 
VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY 

T HE 29th of December was a fine frosty day without 
wind, a circumstance rare at Countershell in the 
winter. The early morning was blue and starry and very 
still, but Cuddy was let off the before-breakfast ride on ac- 
count of its being Violet’s birthday. She and Sam went 
without him, and came back very hungry in good time for 
breakfast and parcels. 

After these were satisfactorily disposed of, and after 
Punch and Harrison had been fed, with double rations be- 
cause it was Violet’s birthday, there were preparations for 
the evening to be considered. Not so very many; Violet, 
with the help of Cuddy, had arranged what was possible be- 
fore this. At least, she said he had helped, but it is prob- 
able that the help was largely a matter of acquiescence on 
his part and imagination on hers. 

“ Supper’s settled,” she told Sam, “ and mostly made now. 
I have found a tablecloth that will do ; it’s a big one, and has 
been put away a long time ; the mice have gnawed one cor- 
ner a little, which is a pity, but I have cut off the gnawed 
corner and re-hemmed it, so it is all right. We have only 
got to arrange the long room this morning.” 

Sam came to help arrange, and Cuddy to look on. 

“ There will be only sixteen,” Violet said — “ not a big 
party. The Burbidges are going to bring the Grants in the 
car with them, else they could not have got here. All the 
people we put down are coming, and the Whites too, three of 
them.” 


99 


100 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ Cousins White ? ” Sam asked, recalling that the aunt of 
that name had been the possessor of sons and daugh- 
ters. 

“ Yes,” Violet said. “ I don’t know them very well. We 
don’t go there every year like we used ; they haven’t room 
for us both together now Dorothy and Bernard are home 
from school. Aunt Mary asked me alone for a while last 
Christmas holidays, but I didn’t go. We thought we’d bet- 
ter ask them, didn’t we, Father? ” 

Cuddy acquiesced, though Sam had a suspicion that he, 
being a Yarborough, had not thought about it one way or 
the other; social and consanguinity obligations not entering 
much into the consideration of any of the family. 

The cousins arrived at lunch-time. To do so they had to 
start earlier than was appreciated by Mina, a pretty girl not 
yet emancipated from her finishing school, though not un- 
sophisticated on that account. Dorothy, her elder sister, 
was plainer. She was just beginning a course of medical 
studies, and much absorbed in them — a trifle dogmatic at 
present, but clever. Bernard, her twin, was like her, but 
better looking and better mannered — a serious-minded 
youth who talked about Small Holdings to Cuddy, and Ger- 
man expansion and British foreign policy to Sam. He and 
his sisters seemed a good deal older than Violet, but they did 
not patronize her ; indeed, they were at first a trifle respect- 
ful, as they would not have been in their own house. 
Countershell and the surroundings, shabby though they 
were, and Violet’s place in them, unconsciously affected 
their susceptible young minds. 

Bernard, who was by way of being a Liberal, his father 
being a Conservative, conceded to Sam during the after- 
noon that there was something to be said for an old landed 
gentry. 

Sam did not smile. “ Meaning Cuddy ? ” he asked, nod- 
ding in the direction of the master of Countershell. 


VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY 


101 


" Mr. Yarborough is, of course, an example,” Bernard 
said. 

“ It wasn’t usually reckoned his strong point,” Sam ob- 
served, but afterwards discussed, or listened to Bernard dis- 
cussing, the advantages and disadvantages of landed gentry 
with all seriousness. 

This was after lunch, while the girls were unpacking, with 
Violet to assist and admire their things, and receive the 
presents they had brought her — a fan and a nicely bound 
copy of Mrs. Browning’s poems. Later they all went out 
to see if the ice bore, and took the dogs with them, Punch 
reluctant though compelled to come. Violet carried him 
part of the way, struggling along until Bernard came to help 
her, when they ran down the slope to the pond, having the 
fat old dog between them, and laughing at his wily, and 
eventually successful, efforts to escape them. Bernard was 
a good deal less of a politician down by the frozen water ; 
indeed, a good deal of the young male human. Mina 
frankly enjoyed herself, tried the frozen surface with youth- 
ful eagerness, not omitting to challenge Sam to come after 
her. Even Dorothy’s pale face took some colour as she 
walked briskly round the pond, with Cuddy amiably (and 
uncomprehendingly) listening to her remarks, and after- 
wards, persuaded by the others, tried the ice with them. 

They came in to tea in the study — tea with birthday cake 
and Violet’s favourite hot toast. 

“ I’m afraid there’s not enough made,” Violet said, look- 
ing in the dish. “ We’re all as hungry as anything; Samuel, 
you and I will have to do some more.” 

“ Let me,” Bernard said, and Mina declared that she 
would too. 

They provided themselves with bread, and knives to hold 
it on, and sat down on the floor before the fire. Bernard 
had a footstool to sit on — he considered the set of his 
trousers; and Mina was careful to place herself next to 


102 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


Sam ; but both entered into the toasting with zest, and there 
was much laughter and talking over the operation. 

It was not quite finished when there was the sound of a 
car approaching the house. The study lay at the back, but 
in the frosty stillness the sound could be heard even above 
the noise they were making. Sam, who was just taking his 
toast from the knife point, stopped. “ Who’ll that be? ” he 
said. 

“ Perhaps a note from the Burbidges,” Violet answered. 
" I hope it isn’t to say they can’t come.” She turned her 
piece of bread and put it to the fire again. “ You have not 
got your share of room,” she said to Bernard, who politely 
drew aside for her ; “ hold your piece there, or it won’t get 
done.” 

“ Mine won’t brown ! ” Mina declared. “ I shall be 
cooked before it. Mr. Bailey, do it for me ; I’ll butter yours 
if you finish mine.” 

She effected the exchange, but handed the toast to Dorothy 
to butter, while she remained before the fire, shielding her 
face with her hand. Sam protested at this, so did the 
others, and she defended herself mirthfully, seconded by 
Cuddy, who sat looking on in the shabby old chair, beaming 
on everybody. 

“ Quite right ! Quite right ! ” he said. “ Make old 
Sammy work — make ’em all work ! A pretty girl like you 
has only got to look handsome, that’s quite enough for 
you ! ” 

The door behind them opened, and there was the rustle 
of garments and a draught from the unwarmed passage. 

“ What a nice little family party ! ” someone said gaily. 

They turned. Maud was standing in the doorway, a 
man behind her. 

For half a moment there was complete silence, then, 
“ Aunt Maud ! ” Violet said. 

She was the first to recover, and spoke while Maud was 


VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY 


10S 


still enjoying the surprise she had given. Her tone was 
one of polite greeting, although in an indefinable way she 
had stiffened all over. 

“ Maud ? ” Cuddy cried. “ Why, so it is ! ” He heaved 
himself out of the chair. “ I say, old girl, this is rippin’ ! ” 

“ We may come in, then?” Maud asked. 

“ Rather ! ” He took hospitable hold of her. 

“ Is that Sam I see?” she asked. “ Sam, I believe 
you’ve shrunk since October; I took you for a boy in the 
firelight ! Who else have we here ? ” 

Her bright glance went from Sam to Bernard ; the three 
girls, standing now together, she did not specially notice. 

Cuddy put a hand on Violet’s shoulder. “ Who else 
have we?” he said proudly. “ Why, Jane, of course — 
Violet Jane, the kiddy. What d’you think of her?” 

Maud stared. “ Violet?” she exclaimed. “ Never! 
You ought to have broken it more gently, Cuddy,” she 
said — “ you really ought ! To think that is my niece ! It 
is awful! Am I as old as Methuselah? Why, I’ve 
thought — I’m ashamed to own to it — but I’ve really thought 
at times that I am still somewhere about that age myself ! ” 

“ I am sixteen,” Violet said — “ sixteen to-day. It’s my 
birthday; my cousins are here because of it.” 

She presented them. The two girls acknowledged 
Maud’s tardy recognition of their existence rather awk- 
wardly, Mina, in spite of her former pretty little grown-up 
air, no more ready than her sister; and Bernard not more 
at ease than either of them. 

The man who accompanied Maud had followed her into 
the room. Sam greeted him by the name of Ingram. 

He looked round quickly, for a moment not perceiving 
Sam in the obscurity where he stood. When he did, he 
showed more surprise than pleasure. “You?” he said. 
“ I did not recognize you in this light.” 

“No?” Sam said. “You didn’t expect to run across 


104 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


me here, perhaps. Never can tell where you’ll fall in 
with people.” 

Ingram acquiesced rather formally, and turned as 
Maud’s enthusiastic voice dominated the room. 

“ A party ! ” she cried. “ Here at Countershell ? What 
are we coming to? I never heard of such a thing! I’ve 
nothing to wear. I’ve brought nothing with me but a tea- 
gown, and he ” — she nodded towards Ingram — “ has 
merely a dinner jacket — of course, a resplendent dinner 
jacket ; he is always resplendent. I told him in that he 
would shine pre-eminent here. And he won’t, after all ! 
What a sell!” 

She did not trouble to explain him or his presence; it 
never occurred to her to do so — or to Cuddy to want it. 
He was delighted to see Maud and any friend of hers, at 
this or any time, but especially this. He, clearly thought 
her coming now most happy and a great addition to the 
party. 

“ As for clothes,” he said, “what do they matter? You 
always look rippin’ anyhow.” 

“ Thank you, Cuddy,” she said. “ You always were 
courtly. Well, since you are so pressing, I will stay with 
you. I might perhaps add that I should stay with you any- 
how. You wouldn’t get me out again to-day, whatever 
you might do; it’s far too cold.” 

Ingram suggested that he should find accommodation 
elsewhere. “We passed an inn or something a few miles 
back on the road,” he said. “ I’ll put up there ; it’s too bad 
to quarter myself on you.” 

Cuddy would not hear of it. And when Ingram, glanc- 
ing round at those assembled, said he feared it would be 
very inconvenient to find room for him, Violet said : 

“ There is room for two more. I will go and see about 
it. Will you pour out tea, Dorothy?” 

She went, though Cuddy told her to stop and have tea 


VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY 105 

first, and Ingram declared himself distressed at the trouble 
he was giving. 

Maud looked after her with momentary interest. 
“ Cuddy,” she observed, “ there is not much Yarborough 
there, except as to size.” 

“Jane?” Cuddy said, complacently. “Rather not! A 
lot more stuff in her than any of us ever had.” 

Maud made no reply. 

Bernard brought her tea, and she thanked him, declar- 
ing he was the sole man of feeling present, the only one 
who realized that she had come thirty miles in an open car, 
and was perishing for something hot. 

“ We’ve been staying at Gray Gables, if you know where 
that is,” she informed him and the rest of the company. 
“ All I can tell you of its whereabouts is the humble, though 
useful, fact, that sane people get there by going by train 
to Ipswich and motoring out. Better informed peo- 
ple may tell you that it is nor’-nor’-east of somewhere, or 
sou’-sou’-west of somewhere else, and there is a short way 
of getting there by which you save sixpence, and change 
thirteen times on the journey. There was an elderly col- 
onel staying there who was mad on maps. He and our 
host wrangled about them and about places and distances 
all the time they weren’t shooting; and everybody else had 
to look at the maps in support of one party or the other. 
That is how it happened that, last night, I discovered we 
were within range of Countershell.” 

“Jolly glad you did,” Cuddy said. 

“ Courtly again, Cuddy ! ” she cried gayly, and went on 
with her narrative. “ When I discovered it, I said ; 
‘ Here is the chance of a lifetime; to-morrow I go. A car, 
if you please.’ And my host replied : ‘ Certainly, my cars 

are your cars ; go by all means — and don’t hurry back ’ — 
or words to that effect. So we went, or came, which- 
ever you call it. I awfully wanted to show him Counter- 


106 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 

shell ” she nodded towards Ingram—" I always want to 

show it to my friends, so I invited him, and he said : ‘ Cer- 
tainly; if I go and see the rotten old place, perhaps you’ll 
leave off talking about it ’—or words to that effect.” 

“To that or some other effect,” Ingram corroborated, 
laughing. 

“ Don’t insinuate that I’m not telling the truth,” she re- 
torted ; “ and don’t interrupt when I’m telling a story. 
Where had I got to? Oh, we came, and Teddy went 
home, poor dear! He had to get back to sit on a board — 
Beer’s down, or there’s a slump in beer, or something. 
He hasn’t much in beer now, praise the Lord! But those 
that have feel the beery reputation of his name is a sup- 
port to them ; they like him to prop the tottering house — 
brewery, I mean. Depressing thing, beer; I always 
thought it so, don’t you ? ” 

She glanced towards Bernard, who had listened atten- 
tively to all she had said, under the impression that it was 
addressed to him. He answered now, speaking of trade 
depression and the Licensing Act. 

She said “ Yes,” and “ Really,” and “ I didn’t know 
that,” then told him to get her more tea. 

Dorothy poured out the tea. Neither she nor Mina had 
any share in the conversation; nor had Bernard after that 
one effort. Mina tried once or twice to catch Ingram’s 
attention with a gesture or small remark — little resultless 
attempts, rather pathetic in their girlish transparency. 
Sam, to cover their failure, took them to himself and re- 
sponded with an assiduity which roused the contempt of 
Mina, under the delusion that she had made a too easy 
conquest. He also attended at the tea-table, helping to 
water the pot, and deciding who was responsible for the 
making of certain pieces of toast, and generally talking in 
a way which Bernard considered foolish, but which, none 
the less, helped to re-establish the young people’s disturbed 


VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY 


107 


amour propre, and gave them someone to use their wits 
upon. 

Dinner was early that evening on account of the party. 
Not so early as first arranged. Maud was not ready till 
twenty minutes after that time, and though she bade them 
not wait for her, they did. 

As a consequence, they were not finished when the first 
guests, who came with great punctuality, arrived. Violet 
went to receive them; she and her three cousins and Sam 
were all in the long room by the time the visitors had re- 
moved their wraps. Cuddy remained in the dining-room, 
to finish dinner with Maud and Ingram. Sam was not 
sure whether Violet would rather he had sent Cuddy to 
help her receive, or whether she would rather have his 
own more useful support at the beginning of her first 
party. Her face did not betray her wishes, her mouth was 
firmly set and her grey eyes rather dark, as they had been 
ever since Maud’s coming; and they did not alter when he 
rose and Cuddy remained. 

The company assembled — the Burbidges, two charming 
girls charmingly dressed, showing themselves amiably 
pleased with everything ; their brother, a finished young gen- 
tleman with manners in a high state of polish, but eyes of 
some shrewdness; Miss Grant and her sister, the latter 
critical and self-conscious and on the lookout for slights; 
their cousin, a good-hearted lad, possessed of a big voice 
and big feet, and as much bashfulness at first as the pupils 
from the Rectory, who were, one serious, the other rather 
shy. There were several other guests, but not many; the 
wide, sparsely inhabited district could not supply a great 
number. All had arrived some little while before Maud 
and Cuddy and Ingram joined them — not greatly to the 
advantage of the party, which by then was just beginning 
to go nicely. 

Cuddy, of course, no one minded. Young Grant was 


108 CUDDY YARBOROUGH'S DAUGHTER 


delighted to see him; the Burbidges, in accordance with 
their training, showed him becoming attention and respect ; 
everybody liked him, and he was genially pleased to see 
everybody. He would have done anything that was re- 
quired of him, been of anyone’s side in charades, repeated 
any word that was put in his mouth, and voted for any 
dance or amusements that was demanded by popular taste. 
He alone would have been an addition to the party; but 
with Maud it was another affair. Her vivid presence 
filled the room ; her gay laugh, her talk, herself, dominated 
everything, even while she stood in the doorway with her 
two companions. Everything seemed to pale beside her, 
or sink into insignificance. The young people glanced 
covertly at her, the girls becoming ill at ease and watchful, 
the boys self-conscious. The shy ones, who were begin- 
ning to thaw, relapsed; the lively ones became awkward, 
or lost interest in the amusements which had occupied 
them. She was radiant but with a radiance that did not 
spread here, and her gaiety was not of a kind to be infec- 
tious in this company; rather it raised a feeling of dis- 
trust and doubt, as to whether they themselves might not 
be the subject of what they were not expected to share. 
She came into the room asking who this and that was, and 
what they were doing; but it was a transient interest be- 
stowed between a remark to Cuddy and a sally to Ingram, 
and quickly forgotten in conversation with one or both of 
them, as they forgot the rest in listening to her. 

Sam, at her command, allotted her a part in what was 
going forward, although he felt doubtful about it. She 
inquired what she was to do and entered enthusiastically 
into it, for a few minutes taking the lead, and overruling, 
without being aware of the fact, what had been previously 
arranged. But speedily she fell into talk with someone, 
young Burbidge or one of the elder men, and forgot what 
she had to do and when to come in ; her companion of the 


VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY 


109 


moment, naturally doing likewise. Ingram, who, also at 
her command, had been given a share, was not much more 
of a success. It was probably the first time he had taken 
part in any such thing, and it was foreign to his nature, 
position, and attainments. He obeyed her with deference 
when she commanded him to play; and he did as he was 
told, conscientiously and not with conscious patronage, al- 
though there was somehow induced in all a feeling that 
the thing was trivial and not really worth anyone’s 
while, a spreading lack of interest in what was going for- 
ward. 

Sam glanced from one to the other, and from Violet’s 
set face to Maud, established in an easy chair, deep in 
eager talk and oblivious of the charade in progress. 

“ Lady Lassiter,” he said with severity, “ may I point 
out that there is acting ? ” 

"•I’m audience,” she replied. 

“ Audiences listen,” he told her. 

“ Not they!” she answered; “they tell each other their 
family histories, and the plot of the play.” 

There was a burst of applause here, someone had guessed 
correctly. Under cover of it Sam spoke again, more seri- 
ously. “ Why do you bother with us ? ” he asked, in a 
lower voice. “ Of course you’re bored — you naturally 
would be — so’s Cuddy, so’s Ingram; they are, anyhow, 
whatever you may be. Why don’t you charitably take 
them away to the drawing-room or somewhere, and amuse 
them away from this?” 

This was mendacious. Cuddy was not bored, and though 
he would be pleased to go with Maud if she asked him, it 
would be no special charity to take him. But one has got 
to sacrifice something on occasions. Sam sacrificed some 
truth; and Maud accepted his statement without question. 
She was in the habit of doing so, especially when, as now, 
it jumped with her inclinations. 


110 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ Shall I? ” she said. “ You’d like me to? I will then ! ” 

She carried off the two men, and the party went on with- 
out them; in the course of time, and helped by the exer- 
tions of Sam, went well. Some time later Cuddy came 
back ; he had rather dropped out of the conversation in the 
drawing-room by then, and had bethought him of Violet 
and her guests, and his place as host. They were dancing 
in the long room by that time and he looked on happily, 
standing by Miss Grant who was at the piano, and turning 
over the pages of her music, more or less at the right place. 

Maud, from the drawing-room, heard the music. She 
was a good dancer, and Miss Grant kept excellent time. In 
a while she suggested that she and Ingram should go back 
and do their duty by the party. They went, and she joined 
the dance with Ingram. Later she told Frank Burbidge he 
ought to ask her to dance, and he at once did so, and ac- 
quitted himself well. Bernard, who, emboldened or en- 
vious of his success, followed, did fairly, being a little em- 
barrassed by the long clinging draperies of the teagown, 
and still more embarrassed by the length of leg displayed 
when she obligingly gathered up the garment to conve- 
nience him. The next dance she had promised to Ingram, 
but she exchanged him for Sam, when she heard the open- 
ing bars of the waltz. 

“ Sam,” she said, putting an authoritative hand on his 
arm, “ this is ours. I decline to have it with another, or to 
be left for another either. Miss Grant ” — she addressed 
Sam’s prospective partner, the younger Miss Grant — “ take 
Mr. Ingram off my hands, there’s a nice girl. He behaves 
all right, and really dances quite decently.” 

Sam hesitated a moment; but he had no doubt that the 
girl would prefer the more distinguished and handsomer 
man. He did not realize that a supersensitive young crea- 
ture, morbidly aware of plain face, old frock, and lack of 


VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY 


111 


charm, might shrink from Ingram as unapproachable, and 
resent both the fact that he had not chosen her and that she 
was forced upon him. She said something indistinct, rather 
curtly, whether consent or refusal was not clear, and really 
did not matter. Maud took consent for granted, and ex- 
tended her hand to Sam. 

“ He dances divinely,” she explained to Ingram, over 
her shoulder. “ At least he used to ; there was none bet- 
ter ” ; and she went away on his arm, serenely unaware that 
her words may have given small satisfaction to the other 
man. 

They made the circuit of the room without speaking, she 
entirely given up to the delight of rhythmic motion. Then, 
as he held her a little from him, with a hold surprisingly 
strong seeing the smallness of his hands, she drew in her 
breath with enjoyment. “ You can still waltz,” she said. 
“ I adore your waltzing.” 

Ingram, deftly steering his unresponsive partner, was at 
her elbow, and probably heard. Glancing after him, she re- 
marked to Sam : “ I didn’t know you knew him. When 

and where did you meet ? ” 

“ At the Cape,” Sam answered ; “ when I went there last 
time I had leave. When and where did you meet ? ” 

“ He and I ? In London, when I was up in November. 
Why?” 

“ He’s got on pretty well in the time,” Sam said ; and she 
laughed. 

“ Stupid ! As if time had anything to do with friends ! 
One likes a person or one doesn’t, and there’s the whole of 
it. I’ve never seen the good of wasting time beginning at 
what’s called the beginning. Begin in the middle, and be 
old friends at once; one gets there every time that way. 
Now, don’t talk ; this is too good to spoil and she once 
more gave herself up to the dance. 


112 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


But when it was over she asked again about Ingram, and 
Sam’s acquaintance with him. 

“ I don’t know anything much of him really,” Sam said. 
“ He was on some Colonial Office commission, I think. He 
was something of a big bug out there. I was not. I only 
came across him when I was running a subscription.” 

“ A subscription ? ” 

His eyes twinkled a little. “It was called Tzvo Red 
Cross Knights , 'Junior Native Branch,” he said. 

“ What ? ” she asked. 

“Well, yes,” he answered. “ I’m afraid it was a hoax. 
You see, it was Christmas-time, and I and the other fel- 
lows — they weren’t officials — thought we’d see how much 
one or two of our acquaintance would swallow. They swal- 
lowed quarts, bushels, hogsheads — it was an exhilarating 
occasion. Afterwards the game assumed bigger propor- 
tions. It seemed such an awful waste not to tackle the 
mess. The Colonel was simply crying out to be collected, 
so I collected him.” 

“You?” 

“ But certainly. Do you think I would have given that 
honour to another? Besides, they weren’t keen on doing 
it personally. That is how I met Ingram; he was dining 
with the mess that night. He was very helpful to me. 
There was a chap there — a bit of a bounder — that Ingram 
had got his knife into. He was not inclined to support the 
Red Cross Knights, so of course Ingram did. He spoke 
splendidly in defence of the movement, of which he, 
truthfully, said he had only heard very vaguely before. I 
could not have done half so well myself, though I helped 
him on all I knew. It was a great occasion.” 

“ What happened in the end ? ” Maud asked. 

“ To the movement? We collected thirty-two pounds six 
and sixpence, and gave it to a missionary society, and did 
not get prosecuted for obtaining money under false pre* 


VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY 


113 


tences, though the Colonel held that we ought to have been. 
Oh! you mean what happened about Ingram and me? 
Nothing, though I don’t think he really loves me. He has, 
I believe, a greater objection, even than the average man, 
to making a fool of himself, or being made a fool of. It 
wouldn’t often happen to him, it does not to that sort; but 
it did that time, I’m afraid. If I were you, I would not 
mention Red Cross Knights. Hulloa, there seems to be an- 
other dance in progress.” 

“ You need not go,” Maud said ; she had laughed a good 
deal at the story, and now asked for details. 

But he, glancing round, saw Dorothy White, his promised 
partner, sitting alone. “ I’m afraid I ought,” he said, and 
went dutifully. 

There was only one more dance after that; the guests 
left by half-past eleven, several of them having consider- 
able distances to go. When all were gone, Maud suggested 
some more supper and another bottle of champagne. 
Cuddy agreed with alacrity, and they adjourned to the din- 
ing-room, Violet and her cousins with the elders, though 
they were not particularly desirous of more supper, having 
done ample justice to the earlier one. They did not stay 
very long. Someone suggested they ought to go to bed, 
and they went, a little hurt in their vanity at being sent, but 
not really unwilling to leave a company in which they were 
not at ease. Violet lingered a moment after her cousins, 
her eyes on Cuddy. She looked at him opening another 
bottle of champagne, talking volubly, and offering ridicu- 
lous bets to Maud, at ease by the fire, plate and glass beside 
her, a slipper in her hand — she had taken it off to settle 
some point of dissention — and handed it round for examin- 
ation, in evidence of emphatically spoken words. She 
turned to Cuddy with a jest while Violet stood. Ingram 
and Sam laughed at it ; all four laughed ; only Sam, glanc- 
ing round, saw Violet. 


114 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“Good-night, Lady Jane/’ he said, coming over to her; 
“ we shan’t be long before we’re up. I’ll see to * lights 
out.’ ” 

“Thank you,” she said, and joined her cousins in the 
hall. 

They went upstairs, and the two girls invited her into 
their room. But she did not come; she asked Dorothy to 
unfasten the back of her dress on the landing, and then 
saying she expected they were tired, went to her own room. 

She may have been tired too, she certainly was not sleepy. 
She undressed and got into bed, but without any inclina- 
tion or thought of going to sleep. She lay listening for a 
long time. The stable clock struck once, the sound clear 
in the frosty stillness. Sam had put it more or less right 
when he was there before Christmas; it struck approxi- 
mately at the hour now. It was striking twelve just before 
she and her cousins came upstairs. It struck one now, the 
sound seeming much louder. She lay listening after it 
ceased, feeling it still in the air. It went in a little, and 
all was quiet again till a dog barked : he only barked once 
and then he, too, was quiet again. The old timbers creaked ; 
a door below opened, then shut ; no steps followed, no one 
was coming upstairs yet. She went to the door to listen; 
there was no sound of steps, all was quiet. The clock struck 
again ; it may have been the half-hour, it may have 
been the hour, the number of its strokes was not to be de- 
pended on. A breath of wind stirred, small but icy along 
the north side of the house. She crept back to bed, and 
lay listening as before. At last downstairs the sound of the 
door again. This time it opened and did not shut. There 
were steps, steps on the stairs and along the passages. 
Possibly she could not really have heard them, or at all 
events not really have distinguished them and where they 
went, but she thought she did. She heard Maud’s voice — 
“ Good-night ! ” it said. “ You’ll be frozen on the way to 


VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY 


115 


your little by-by. I did not remember the fearsome cold 
of the passages here in the winter. Oh, I forgot the in- 
fants were all a-bed and asleep ! ” 

She broke off, hushing herself, as someone apparently 
reminded her of the other inmates of the house. Her door 
shut, rather noisily, it was difficult to shut one quietly at 
Countershell, all the locks were worn and some of the jambs 
sunk. There were more steps, other doors shutting ; then a 
little later, a hand softly brushed the panels of Violet’s 
door. 

“ Lights out,” Sam’s voice said quietly, as he passed with 
soft footfall. 

She sprang out of bed, and gathering some wrap around 
her, went after him. He had gone down the narrow pas- 
sage to the right; he had been moved from the room he 
had occupied to the little one far down that passage, to 
make space for the uninvited guests. He had almost 
reached it before he heard her bare feet on the boards ; the 
passage was uncarpeted, carpet having given out before 
that. 

Jane,” he said. “ You villain ! You’ll catch your death 
of cold!” 

“ Has everyone gone to bed? ” she asked — “ I mean, has 
father? ” 

“ Yes,” he said, “ everyone has gone to bed, except the 
ill-behaved mistress of the house and S. Bailey, who wishes 
he was there. Jane, where are your shoes? ” 

“ I don’t know. Do you think ” 

“ Don’t be an ass,” he said comfortably. 

He pulled her into an embrasure, where there was a win- 
dow-seat, and she squatted on it, covering her bare feet. 
“ What are you worrying about? ” he asked. “ Your par- 
ent? He’s all right; he’s gone to bed, and will sleep the 
sleep of the just till his inside calls him to repentance. He 
confided in me yesterday that his doctor told him he ought 


116 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


not to drink champagne — a fact which does not surprise me, 
and which, also, does not usually keep a man from doing it 
and regretting it when his liver says, ‘ I told you, or am 
telling you, so.’ To-morrow, he will be sorry for himself. 
And to-morrow, Maud, having arisen about io a.m., will, 
about eleven, depart with that able Civil Servant, Cecil 
Ingram, Esq. As for Violet Jane Yarborough, she will go 
to bed after I have got her some slippers to walk there in 
— I believe she can still wear mine, though she bids fair to 
grow out of them.” 

He went into his room, and fetched shoes, and put them 
on for her. 

“ Samuel,” she said unhappily, “ do you think it’s be- 
cause I'm jealous? — I mean that I feel so? Do you think 
I’m jealous of Aunt Maud?” 

“ Don’t know,” Sam said; he felt the passages of Counter- 
shell at two o’clock on a winter’s morning were not the 
place for such speculations. 

“Were we all jealous?” Violet pursued, in the persist- 
ent way of her childhood. “ Her coming altered every- 
thing; it — it spoilt the party.” 

“ It didn’t,” Sam said unceremoniously, “ the party wasn’t 
spoilt.” 

“Well, no,” she allowed — “perhaps not really; it was 
saved by you. But her coming did alter it for every- 
one. All the girls were ” she broke off doubtfully. 

“ Were we all jealous of her? ” she asked again. “ I didn’t 
want to be like she is, or to have what she has, we none of 
us did ; but we didn’t want her to be there, we didn’t any of 
us. I’m kind of afraid of her being here; I don’t know 
why. I believe they all were in a way afraid. Is that be- 
ing jealous?” 

“ To ask such a question at such an hour ! ” Sam 
groaned, but nevertheless tried to answer it. 

“ Maybe it’s instinct,” he suggested. “If the unit of the 


VIOLET’S BIRTHDAY 


1H 


family — home, husband and children — is the instinctive 
ideal of the female part of the race, then there might be an 
instinctive dread of the Mauds. She’s of the kind which is 
liable to be dangerous to the security of that unit. I throw 
this out as a suggestion. I don’t pretend to explain what 
you feel or why, and I entirely decline to further discuss 
obscure points of feminine psychology at this time of night 
with the thermometer what it is. Go to bed; don’t worry 
your head any more about anything, not even your own 
short-comings.” 

“ Thank you,” she said. “ Thank you very much, Sam- 
uel,” and she went away to bed, leaving him in some doubt 
as to precisely for what she thanked him. 


CHAPTER VI 
VIOLET'S FUTURE 

I N February Cuddy came to London. It was towards 
the end of the month when Sam, who was soon return- 
ing to Africa, was in town making purchases and prepara- 
tions prior to his departure. Cuddy came to see him late 
one afternoon. 

“ Hulloh! ” Sam exclaimed, as he entered. “ You here? 
How’s this, and where’s Violet ? ” 

“ Left her at home,” Cuddy said ; “ she’s working for an 
examination. She won’t get through o’ course — never 
does ; but Miss Grant thinks she ought to have a shot now 
and then.” 

“ Quite right,” Sam agreed paternally, and then asked 
after her health, and after the dogs, and other things. 

Cuddy answered, then lapsed into silence. Something 
about him struck Sam. He was as cheerful as usual cer- 
tainly, but quieter, and looked a little puzzled. He always 
was rather puzzled by misfortune, whether, as most often 
happened, he had brought it on himself or not. Sam won- 
dered if Mr. Burbidge had made him an offer for the 
house of Countershell ; or if, by some other means, he had 
been brought to consider his affairs and suddenly come to 
the conclusion they were in a bad way. 

“What for?” Cuddy asked, when Sam put the question 
about Countershell. “ What on earth should Burbidge 
want it for? His own house is three times the size, and 
Lord knows how many times better lighted and heated and 
drained, and all the rest of it. He doesn’t want Counter- 
shell ; he’s no manner of use for the place.” 

118 


VIOLET’S FUTURE 


119 


This was true. However much of the land and position 
Burbidge might want (and acquire), he would have no use 
for the house — old, inconvenient, and of no great size, not 
in the least suited to his requirements, already admirably 
filled by the big house near Denham. 

“ I ran across him yesterday,” Sam told Cuddy. “ He 
and his brother the plutocrat, who came over with him 
that time years ago when the aunts visited us, you re- 
member ? ” 

“The money chap who was keen on Africa?” Cuddy 
said. 

“ Yes, he was keen on Africa; cotton, then, if I remem- 
ber right. Never got beyond the thinking-stage of that 
venture — at all events, nothing was done. There was not 
enough in it for him, I suppose. He’s not the kind to pur- 
sue schemes that don’t pay him handsomely. He’s after 
some gold concern in Central Africa now; a jolly good 
thing, I should fancy. I know the district by repute — un- 
healthy as you can want, but there’s gold there fast enough 
if they can get it, and they will with him behind to push. 
He knows how to arrange these things to pay. He has 
offered me to have a bit in the present syndicate, if I like. 
You’d better too, if you can raise any cash.” 

Cuddy could not; he seldom could. On this occasion he 
even did not think he could, which was not so usual with 
his sanguine temperament. Still, it did not appear to be 
anxiety about ways and means which was troubling him 
now ; any real consideration of them was as far from him 
as usual. 

“ Cuddy, what’s the matter ? ” Sam asked at last. 
“ What is it? You look as if you’d got something on your 
mind.” 

“Do I?” Cuddy said, contemplating himself in the glass 
over the mantelpiece. “ I don’t see anything amiss with 
my looks. There doesn’t look to be much the matter with 


120 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


me. Seemed rather rot to go and see a doctor. I thought 
so when I set out.” 

“ Have you been to see a doctor ? ” 

“No end of a swell — lives in Harley Street. Our local 
man wanted me to go.” 

“ What for ? What did he say ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know — not much. Of course, he told me a 
thing or two, to do and not to do, and wrote a scrawl ” — 
he pulled a prescription out of his pocket and looked at it. 
“ Had to do something for his money, you know, but I don’t 
think he reckoned it’d make much difference.” 

Sam looked up quickly, a suspicion of the situation dawn- 
ing suddenly upon him. “ What ? ” he said. 

Cuddy nodded. “ That’s about the size of it,” he said. 
“ He don’t think I’m going to get better. Decent chap, 
quite straight — told me honestly, when I asked him, this 
had come to stop.” 

“ What’s that mean ? ” Sam demanded. “ That he can’t 
cure you of whatever he thinks is wrong? You’re not go- 
ing to sit down under that, are you ? I wouldn’t, I know ; 
they’re always wrong. Go and see another man — go to 
half-a-dozen. Let’s hunt some up.” 

Cuddy shook his head; he had taken a big chair by the 
fire, and sat there quietly. “No good,” he said. “ He’s 
right enough; thing’s there to stop. I know that; so does 
the local man — that’s why he sent me. Luckily it’s not 
much of a nuisance — at all events not yet ; very likely won’t 
be ” 

His eyes met Sam’s, and he broke off for a moment. 
“ It’s all right, old chap,” he said ; “ don’t take on on my 
account. I’m not going to peg out yet awhile, you needn’t 
think that.” 

“ No,” said Sam, and walked to the window. Cuddy and 
his way of taking this made speech rather difficult. 

He stood looking out at nothing for a while. Cuddy 


VIOLET’S FUTURE 


121 


gave little heed to him. He did answer when asked what 
the great doctor had said, but paid comparatively little at- 
tention, and lapsed into thoughtful silence again, looking 
into the fire in a patient and puzzled way. 

“We Yarboroughs don’t seem to make old bones,” he 
remarked at length. “ The governor wasn’t a great deal 
more than a middle-aged man when he went under; and 
the mater, she wasn’t sixty. Enid, you know, is no end of 
a crock, and now there’s me. Funny thing, me; I always 
seemed as strong as a donkey — rather like one too. There’s 
something crocky in the family, I suppose. D’you think 
it’s because we racketed about too much — the men of us? 
Some doctor chaps hold that’s a bad thing for the third and 
fourth generation, though it’s a beastly shame the women 
should have to pay too if it is so. Jolly good thing Vie’s 
family’s all right — I mean for Jane. She’s tough as nails. 
You think so, don’t you? ” 

Sam nodded. 

“ She’s the only thing that matters really,” Cuddy went 
on ; “ it doesn’t really matter to anyone but her. I’m not 
much of a chap ; it wouldn’t be any particular loss if I were 
to peg out to-morrow — not to anyone except her.” 

“ Don’t talk rot ! ” Sam said sharply. 

“ It wouldn’t, you know,” Cuddy persisted. 

Sam did not answer and Cuddy sat looking into the fire 
again. “ She’d be awfully lonely,” he said wistfully. “ If 
anything happens to me and she gets left, you’d do what 
you could to cheer her up, wouldn’t you, Sam ? ” 

" Of course,” Sam said. He turned from the window 
abruptly. “ Look here,” he broke out, “ what rubbish is 
this you’re talking? You’re good for a long time yet — you 
said so, or something like it, just now, didn’t you? It’ll be 
Violet’s wedding, not your own funeral, you’ll be ordering ; 
that’ll come a long time first.” 

“ You think so ? ” Cuddy said, his face brightening. “ I 


1 22 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


thought of that myself ! Though she’s a kid for that sort 
of thing, still they do marry young sometimes. I dare say 
she will, if she can make up her mind to leave me to muddle 
along by myself. You might give her a hint, Sam, not to 
let silly notions of that sort stand in the way if she 
gets a fancy for anyone. She thinks a lot of what you 
say. Mind, though, you don’t say anything about the 
rest.” 

Sam was doubtful about the wisdom of this. “ Don’t 
you think she ought to know something ? ” he said. “ That 
you aren’t so strong as you were, or something? I fancy 
she’d rather know. She’s pretty certain to suspect sooner 
or later.” 

“ Oh, I’ll tell her a bit,” Cuddy said, “ what I am to do 
and not to do, and how I’ll jog along much as I am a while; 
it’ll be all right. There’s no need to tell her more than that. 
I’ll pop off some day, of course — comes to that, we all 
shall. There’s no point in talking to her about it, especially 
as she’ll likely be married before then.” 

Sam was not quite convinced; he could not help feeling 
that if Cuddy had stated his case fairly — and there seemed 
little room to doubt it — it were better to be more explicit 
with Violet. He held her to be of the kind who could face 
and share a burden, and would sooner do it than be taken 
unawares. Though, on the other hand, it certainly did 
seem cruel to unnecessarily give her anxiety — certainly pro- 
longed, possibly needless; and to shadow her life with an 
impending trouble she could not help or alter. 

Cuddy had no doubts as to which should be done; it 
never occurred to him to tell anyone, or expect any to share 
with him. He had told Sam, it is true; but that was be- 
cause he happened to see him ; because he was his friend ; 
and he would have told him anything, trivial or important, 
that occupied him at the time. He did not think of it as 
sharing a trouble; and he certainly never thought of shar- 


VIOLET’S FUTURE 


m 


ing with anyone else. Before he left he exacted a promise 
that Violet should not be told. 

Sam promised — he could not do otherwise — and Cuddy 
went away. And when he had gone, Sam sat awhile with- 
out moving, looking before him, but seeing principally 
Cuddy’s round, muffin-like face and prominent grey eyes, 
patiently accepting, bravely confronting, slow approaching, 
possibly painful death. 

A week later Sam went to Countershell to say good-bye 
before he left for Africa. Violet met him at the station, 
and during the homeward drive spoke of her father and 
his state of health in a way which increased Sam’s respect 
for Cuddy’s powers of diplomacy, but also increased his 
doubts as to the wisdom of his determination to leave Violet 
unwarned. However, having given a promise, he kept it 
as he was obliged to, and listened to what she had to say 
with little comment. He was glad when she changed the 
subject and spoke of Maud. 

“ She gave me a lace scarf for a birthday present,” she 
said. “ She sent it when she got home after being here on 
my birthday. It is very beautiful, and must have cost a lot 
of money.” 

Sam said he was glad to hear it. 

Violet was silent a moment. 

“ It’s horrid of me,” she confessed at length, “ but it’s 
true ; I almost wish she hadn’t sent it.” 

“ Why ? ” Sam asked. “ Because you don’t like her, and 
don’t like to feel there are likeable points, such as gener- 
osity, in her ? Or because you think you are being casually 
remembered, as you have before been casually forgotten? 
Or is it merely that you don’t care about taking presents 
from people you don’t like?” 

“ I don’t know,” Violet said. “ I know it’s horrid of me, 
anyway, and wrong — and I am a beast ! ” 


124 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ I wouldn’t go so far as that,” Sam said, “ though I own 
your sentiments about Maud smack a little of prejudice. 
Really and truly, you know, she is a good sort.” 

“ I know,” she said ; and he went on to enlarge on Maud’s 
good qualities, partly from* loyalty, partly from a sudden 
realization that, in some contingencies, she might be thrown 
much with Maud, when a good understanding would be a 
great help to comfort and well-being. 

She listened to what he said, and admitted everything 
with humility until he concluded, “ I don’t see why you 
should object to her; she doesn’t do any harm — she doesn’t 
mean to.” 

“ It’s not enough not to mean,” she said to that, with 
the clear-sighted mercilessness of youth. “ You can do 
harm without meaning to quite as well as with meaning to. 
You can hurt without thinking about people just as much 
as with thinking about them.” 

Sam, remembering incidents in his long acquaintance 
with Maud, more especially in his recently renewed ac- 
quaintance, did not feel able to entirely contradict this. 

“ The folk that do so don’t know they do it,” he ven- 
tured. “ Will you altogether blame them ? They don’t 
mlean harm.” 

“ They don’t mean good either,” Violet retorted ; “ they 
don’t think about it either way.” 

“ Perhaps not,” he said, “ that sort of thinking is usually 
rather left out of their constitution. It’s the way they’re 
made: they can’t help that.” 

Violet was silent a moment ; then she asked, “ But every- 
body doesn’t have to stop as they were when they began — 
why should some? I don’t believe Aunt Maud wants to 
help it.” 

Sam laughed. “ Aunt Maud never thinks about it or any 
such things,” he said, “ and you think too much.” 

They had turned in at the gateway now, and no more 


VIOLET’S FUTURE 


125 


was said, for Cuddy came down the drive to meet them. 

Sam had only one day to spend at Countershell, and, 
seeing all the circumstances, he was not altogether sorry he 
had no more. There are some things, notably some emo- 
tions, which will not stand drawing out. But seeing he had 
only the one day, and seeing the chances of his ever spend- 
ing another with his old friend in the old circumstances 
were very small, he was rather sorry Cuddy sent him with 
Violet to the sand dunes. 

But send him he did, arranging it over night. “ If you 
clear out directly after breakfast you’ll be back by lunch,” 
he said. “ Don’t hurry if you don’t want to, of course ; 
take your time, and mind you knock it into Jane about 
marrying and leaving me, and all the rest we agreed.” 

“ Very well,” Sam said, perceiving the reason of the send- 
ing and submitting to it, although he did not relish the task 
imposed upon him. 

The next morning, directly after breakfast, he and Violet 
started, and when they were once on the way he was glad 
they were going. After all, he had to say good-bye to 
Violet as well as Cuddy on this visit, and the sand dunes, to 
which they had often been together, were her favourite 
place, and associated in his mind with her as she was — a 
long-limbed, half-developed creature, with earnest, straight 
regarding eyes, only half wakened yet, but stirring and 
seeking gravely for the right. And this creature, this 
Violet, would be gone when he came home again — much 
more surely and inevitably gone than Cuddy. Life, the 
mere passing days, would take her away, even if marriage 
and death played no part. She would be gone when he 
came to England again; he was looking at her for the last 
time on the sand hills she loved. 

“ You always were fond of it,” he said aloud. 

She was standing on a sand eminence, strands of hair 
loosened from her plait by the salt-tasting wind blowing 


126 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


about her face. “ This ? ” she said, and drew in her breath 
as she looked round at the great spaciousness. 

“ It’d be a wrench to leave it, I expect ? ” he went on. 

“ This ? ” she said again, a little puzzled. 

“ Yes, this,” he answered, “ all of it — Countershell.” 

She looked at him in some amazement. “ I’m not going 
to leave Countershell,” she said. “ Why should I ? ” 

“ When you are married you might,” he suggested. 
“ Supposing you married a man stationed in India, or a 
South Sea whaler, or a butcher in Liverpool ? ” 

“ I shouldn’t,” she said. “ I shall never marry anybody. 
At least, I don’t think I ever shall, anyhow not for a long 
while — years.” 

“ Perhaps not,” he said, “ but you never can tell ; wait 
till you fall in love. One can fall in love any time, and any- 
how ; it takes you smack between the eyes, and then — there 
you are.” 

She turned to him with interest. “ Is that really how it 
is ? ” she said. 

“ Yes,” he said. “ Sometimes it takes you quite suddenly 
— hardly seen the party to mention before, in love with 
them without any preliminaries. Sometimes it takes time; 
you’ve known them years, and never thought of them that 
way — go to bed one night not in love, wake up next morn- 
ing up to the neck. Both come to much the same in the 
end, when nothing matters, excepting only the one person.” 

“ I’ve never known anyone in love,” Violet remarked 
thoughtfully. “ It’s very interesting. I don’t believe I 
should ever feel like that.” 

“ If it entailed leaving Countershell ? ” he inquired. 
“ That would not count for much if you were in love. It 
would be a wrench to go, as I said, but you would do it if it 
were to go with him. Though, of course, it’s quite possible 
you would not have to go; seeing you are the last of the 


VIOLET’S FUTURE 


w 


family, it’s possible you and Countershell might be lumped 
in together. In that case you and your husband would 
settle there and live happy ever after.” 

“ That wouldn’t be so bad,” she said ; “ except that I 
shouldn’t think father would like it.” 

“ He would,” Sam assured her. “ He’d be as pleased as 
anything, whether he lived with you or moved to a shanty 
close by or went to live in town, or whatever he did.” 

“ I don’t believe he would,” she said ; “ besides ” 

“ Besides, you have got a feeling of responsibility for 
him?” Sam suggested. “ You feel he wants you, and you 
ought to be with him and look after him ? That’s all right 
now ; but some day, when you fall in love and want to get 
married, it will be different. If, when that time comes, you 
have any doubts about it, just remember this : ‘ One’s duty 

is to the coming generation, not to the going/ which, being 
interpreted, is: Choose your husband and blow your par- 
ents, if you can’t run them together, and there is a choice to 
be made. All good parents know that, and don’t wish to 
be considered in their children’s matrimonial arrange- 
ments. So, V. J., if it occurs to you to get married, get 
married ; it’ll be your duty to do so, not to stop at home and 
look after your father.” 

He spoke with an underlying note of earnestness, but she 
did not answer. The vista of possibilities, opened by his 
words and applied personally for the first time, kept her 
silent. 

He glanced quickly at her, then made the mistake of add- 
ing a little more. 

“ I know Cuddy would wish you to decide that way,” he 
said. 

“ How do you know?” she demanded. “ He wouldn’t 
really know himself. He might think it, just as he thinks 
I ought to have lessons, but is awfully glad when, for some 


128 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 

reason, I can’t and we get off. He might think it like 
that.” 

“ He might, but he wouldn’t,” Sam said with conviction. 
He rose from the sheltered hollow in the sand where he had 
been sitting ; he felt he had done all he could to present the 
subject of matrimony in the light in which Cuddy wished 
her to see it. How far he had succeeded was another mat- 
ter, and one on which he felt more than doubtful. 

He told Cuddy so that evening when they sat smoking to- 
gether after she had gone to bed. 

“ She’ll do what she thinks she ought when the time 
comes,” he said, “ without any reference to my opinion, or 
yours either.” 

“ She thinks an awful lot of what you say,” Cuddy an- 
swered reassuringly. “ She’s got no end of a notion of 
your sense. You are a sensible chap, really, you know.” 

Sam showed small appreciation of the compliment. “ I 
wasn’t in love with saying that, I can tell you,” he said; 
“ it was a waste of time for one thing, and rotten for an- 
other. Besides — well, she hadn’t so much as thought about 
being married before ; it had never entered her head.” 

He thought of the girl with earnest, unconscious eyes, 
and felt that he himself had that day begun, or tried to, 
Time’s work of doing away with her. 

Certainly so far there was little indication that he suc- 
ceeded ; only once or twice during the day there had been a 
darkening of her eyes and a moment of more than ordinary 
thoughtfulness. Otherwise she had been as usual; about 
outbuildings with him and Cuddy, talking seriously of re- 
pairs, or playful under her father’s teasing ; strolling down 
to the warren with them before tea ; and, later, sitting in the 
study making toast and mending Cuddy’s coat. The whole 
afternoon, even down to the pale gleam in the sky at sun- 
set and the long twilight that filled the passages at Counter- 
shell hauntingly, had been as one would wish it to be — one, 


VIOLET’S FUTURE 


129 


that is, who felt he had to carry it in memory with him. 
They had been very happy together during the evening, too, 
the three of them: it was difficult to realize that it might 
be the last time they would be so together. 

If possible, harder still to realize it now Sam was alone 
with Cuddy. He glanced at him, sucking placidly at his 
pipe, and, from his expression, evidently gradually achiev- 
ing to some idea in his mind. There must have been a mis- 
take. Cuddy could not really have told him that news in 
town ; he had dreamed it, or it was not true. If not that, 
if it had been told, and was true, Cuddy had forgotten; 
mercifully, like all the Yarboroughs, he could forget. 

Cuddy took his pipe from his mouth. “ I’ve got two 
years, anyway,” he said ; and Sam started. It was true, and 
Cuddy had not forgotten ; accepted it as a matter of course, 
and a thing not to be bothered over. 

“ Jane’ll be eighteen before then,” he went on, as if he 
were dating from an everyday event. “ That’s young to be 
married, of course, but she’s sure to be snapped up young. 
Lucky devil, whoever gets her! I hope he’ll be decent to 
her. Sam ” — his face clouded at the thought — “ supposing 
she were to pick a wrong ’un ? ” 

“ She’s got sense,” Sam said shortly. 

“ That’s true,” Cuddy agreed, but afterwards added : 
“ So’d her mother, and she picked me. I shouldn’t like 
Jane to marry a chap like me.” 

“ She won’t,” Sam said. “ There isn’t another ” 

He sprang up abruptly. 

“ Oh, Cuddy, Cuddy, you old fool ! ” he said tenderly. 
“ For Heaven’s sake shut up ! ” 

“ What ? ” Cuddy asked. “ Oh, I say ! Look here, 
Sam ” 

“ Shut up ! ” Sam said. “ You’re enough to make the 
dogs laugh — or howl.” He sat down again. “ Let’s talk 
of something else,” he said. 


130 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ But we must talk about Jane,” Cuddy protested ; “ there 
mayn’t be another chance. What I’ve been thinking is this 
— there aren’t many fellows about here for her to choose 
from.” 

Sam could not deny it; but, after consideration, could 
suggest nothing better than sending her to stay with the 
aunts. “ At all events, Aunt White,” he said ; “ Miss Mina 
will see to it there are plenty of young men to and fro in 
that house.” 

“ That’s an idea,” Cuddy admitted ; “ but I’ve got a bet- 
ter notion than that — though we could try that too. What 
d’you say to Maud ? ” 

He spoke with such immense pride in the origination and 
proprietorship of the idea that Sam had not the heart to 
discount it. Besides, and in spite of what he knew of 
Violet’s sentiments, he could not help feeling Maud might 
be useful. 

“ She said when she was here on Jane’s birthday that 
she’d come again in the summer,” Cuddy explained. 
“ When she comes I shall arrange with her to have Jane 
next spring; she’ll be old enough then, and Maud’ll 
give her a rattling good time, and see she doesn’t fix 
her fancy on anyone that doesn’t do. It’ll be the very 
thing.” 

“ H’m, yes,” Sam said. “ I suppose she’ll go? ” 

“ Of course, she’ll have no end of a time ; I shall tell 
her ” 

“If you tell her to go I dare say she will ; she’s astonish- 
ingly obedient still. I expect it would be the best thing. I 
expect it would be good for her.” 

The girl of the sand hills was bound to go. Maud and 
Grange Hall would only expedite the work he had begun; 
it was useless regretting. 

“ Cuddy,” he said, introducing the subject rather ab- 
ruptly, “how about Countershell, and the mortgages, and 


VIOLET’S FUTURE 131 

the rest ? Will you be able to — to settle anything much on 
Violet ? ” 

He might just as well have said “ leave to,” instead of 
“ settle on,” so far as Cuddy was concerned. Cuddy him- 
self said it readily enough in speaking of his affairs. 

“ Of course there’ll be something for her when I’m done 
for,” he said — “ sure to be. I don’t know what. I’m 
afraid not a great deal. I don’t really know how I do 
stand ; things are in a bit of a muddle. Vie got ’em wonder- 
fully straight considering, when we cam'e in here ; but that’s 
a good while ago. She’s been dead more’n six years, you 
know. We’ve kept going as well as we could; but I’m 
afraid things are nothing like when she left ’em.” 

That was only to be expected. Certainly Sam did not 
expect anything different. Though, from his acquaintance 
with Cuddy, and what was liable to be loosely described by 
him as “ a bit of a muddle,” he was not very easy about it. 

“ It might, perhaps, be as well to look into them a little 
some time,” he suggested tentatively. 

Cuddy agreed. “ I must,” he said. “ I say, I wish you 
were staying longer ! We could do it together. I’m such a 
mug at this sort of thing.” 

He pulled out some papers. “ Let’s have a look at 
these,” he said. “ I haven’t got much here. Old Tyler, at 
Denham, is the only chap who really knows much about 
things ; still, you might get the hang of ’em a bit. I’ve got 
a list of the mortgages somewhere, if I could put my hand 
on it.” 

He looked in drawers and pigeon-holes and other less 
likely places, producing papers from them all. 

“ I expect most of them have nothing to do with any- 
thing,” he said. “ What’s this ? Oh, the bill for the roof, 
the one that knocked the house down. That belongs to 
4 repairs.’ I’ve got a place for 4 repairs.’ Here’s a letter 
from Burbidge; that’ll be about the sale of the land. No, 


132 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


it isn’t. It’s not from Burbidge at all. It’s from that 
other chap — man I met who told me of an awful good thing 
for weak hocks. He writes just like Burbidge.” 

He glanced through the letter, and threw it aside. He 
would, no doubt, have done the same by others — busily ab- 
sorbed in each, wandering cheerfully into trivial by-paths, 
advancing not at all ; the same old Cuddy, no older and no 
wiser than when, years ago, Sam, a boy of seventeen, had 
first been called to counsel on his affairs. The same Cuddy, 
bewildered, bewildering, and happy. 

“ Cuddy ” Sam began, and stopped, something for a 

minute sticking in his throat. 

He drew up to the desk. “ It’s no good doing this, old 
chap,” he said gently. “ Just tell me a few things, what you 
can remember about the mortgages, and so on.” 

Cuddy looked a little disappointed ; but he acquiesced, and 
answered the questions Sam put him, rather indefinitely, it 
must be admitted, when he could answer them, which was 
not always, and with confusing amplifications drawn from 
the papers — letters from lawyers and agents, accounts of 
returns and disbursements kept with occasional lapses into 
regularity, and other less relevant matter. It required skill 
to pick out one thing from another, and more technical 
knowledge than Sam had to grasp the situation that arose, 
even if the one guessed at from the inaccurate information 
was the correct one. Sam applied himself diligently, but 
in the end he said : 

“ You’d much better shoot all these into a bag and take 
them to Tyler. He’s known all the lot of you for no end 
of a time, and wouldn’t rook you much for going into them 
and doing it properly.” 

“ All right,” Cuddy said ; “ perhaps you’re right. Since 
you can’t be here to see after it, I expect he’d better.” 

Sam suggested fixing a day for the interview, and 
Cuddy agreed, but did not fix one that night. 


VIOLET’S FUTURE 


133 


They sat a while longer, smoking and talking in a desul- 
tory way, more of the present or the past than the future. 
That, even Violet’s future, seemed to have slipped from 
Cuddy’s mind now. And Sam. was not sorry for it ; nor al- 
together sorry to say good-night when the time came and 
put an end to it all, even though it might possibly be a real 
and actual end. He felt he had had enough. 

The next morning he spoke again to Cuddy about going 
to the lawyer’s. He did not like reopening the subject, 
but, knowing Cuddy and his faculty for procrastination, he 
felt he must. Cuddy did not resent it; he again said he 
would fix a day, but showed no signs of doing it until Sam 
saw him to his desk and dictated a letter. But even that, 
Sam knew, was no guarantee he would keep the appoint- 
ment made. He did not, by any means, always keep them, 
unless they were on Violet’s conscience as well as his own, 
and this one could not be put on Violet’s ; her father did not 
wish her to know about it. 

“ Better not say anything to her,” he said. “ She’s wor- 
ried when I go to Tyler’s ; thinks things have gone wrong 
somehow. Besides, she might get an idea; she’s very 
sharp.” 

Sam acquiesced, but did so reluctantly; he was far from 
sure of Cuddy without his monitor. He also still held that 
it were better Violet should have some idea ; he held it more 
emphatically than before. But it was useless to urge it 
further; he had used all the arguments he could; Cuddy 
must do as he wished and thought best in a matter which 
concerned him so nearly. He said no more about it. 

But when he got back to town he bought a copy of 
“ Everybody’s Pocket Code,” and, having written directions 
for cabling to Central Africa and the cost of it, he pasted 
them inside. Then he sent it to Violet with instructions: 
“ If ever you are in a hole , or any trouble in which I can be 
of help or comfort , cable me !’ 


CHAPTER VII 


THE AUNTS 


HE sun shone on Countershell; on the flint face of 



A the house, and the darkened windows, and the open 
space before it where the chestnut tree grew. There was 
no one about; no one looking out of the windows, no one 
crossing the hall, no one to be seen through the half -open 
doorway. Everything was very quiet. A little breeze 
stirred in the garden; there was often a breeze here, even 
on an afternoon of late July. The shade beneath the chest- 
nut tree was dappled with light now and again by the 
swaying of the leaves to it. Harrison, who was lying under 
the tree, got up ; it may have been that the breeze disturbed 
him, or the alternating light and shadow — he hardly knew 
himself. He had been restless and uneasy all day, finding 
no place about the house or garden to his taste, but to go 
from them less to his taste still. He moved away now 
with some idea of looking for a more comfortable spot. 
Punch looked after him ; he himself had been lying for two 
hours in the sunniest corner, he was panting now from the 
heat and his own bulk and age; but he did not get up till 
Harrison was out of sight. Then he rose, scratched, and 
walked slowly to the stable yard for water. 

The stable yard was as quiet as the garden, the stable as 
quiet as the house. A horse stamped in a stall once ; noth- 
ing else moved but some flies, almost too idle to buzz. 
The sun shone on this flint-faced wall as on the other; on 
the creeper, now in luxuriant leaf, and on the engine and 
shining brasses of a powerful car to be seen through the 
open doorway of the old coachhouse. Punch looked in at 


134 


THE AUNTS 


135 


it. He had, with difficulty and chastisement, partially 
learnt that such things, travelling at a pace he could not 
forecast, neither swerved from nor stepped over old dogs 
who regarded the centre of the highways about their home 
as their private property and the right place to lie or walk 
on. He had for such machines and their smell the con- 
tempt and dislike of a magistrate of the old school, and a 
dim hope of one day doing one a serious damage ; he looked 
in superciliously at this one, stationary and powerless for 
mischief, and quiet as everything else this afternoon. 
Then he waddled to the water trough, drank, and waddled 
away again: out through the archway, back to the garden 
and his old place in the sun. Harrison had not taken 
possession of it in his absence; it was not likely that he 
would; if he had not found a fresh place for himself, he 
was wandering about restless and uncertain, listening for 
his master to call him. His master had not called him all 
day, and though he knew, as Punch knew, that the master 
had not gone away, he could not find him in the house or 
garden or stable. He had not gone, but he was not there. 
It was a mystery. Punch perceived the mystery too, but 
he troubled less ; he was a wise old dog, and took the goods 
the gods gave without questing. The opportunity to lie and 
roast himself unreproved in the full sun was too good to 
be lost. Also the mistress mattered more to him than the 
master, and of her presence in the house he was aware, al- 
though he had seen little or nothing of her that day. He 
stretched himself out again with a sigh of content, and 
dozed off to sleep. 

From the other side of the garden came the sound of a 
mowing machine, Walters at work — a drowsy sound that in 
a while sank into drowsy silence. The women servants had 
cups of tea at this hour in the afternoon. Walters would 
have gone to get one and talk with them in the subdued 
tones of gloomy importance which were used in the kitchen 


136 CUDDY YARBOROUGH'S DAUGHTER 


that day, and which, with the interest of the subject dis- 
cussed, precluded much attention being given to dogs, their 
wants, or their depredations. Nothing moved in the sunny 
garden except the breeze; no sound came from the dark- 
ened house. Harrison came back in a while, and stood 
looking round, wistful and puzzled. Then he went up the 
shallow steps to the open door, as he had done more than 
once before that afternoon. He trotted up quickly, as if on 
business, or at least on a hopeful journey ; but when he got 
inside the hall he went more slowly, stopped, stood looking 
about, listening. He went to a stick standing in a corner 
and smelt it, and to a hat that lay on a chair. He smelt 
them twice or thrice, and the smell seemed to reassure him. 
He came out again, and lay down with an air of patience, his 
head on his paws, his eyes open and fixed, bright and watch- 
ful, on the doorway. 

Nothing happened. The sun moved round, the shadow 
of the chestnut lengthened, spreading towards where the 
dogs lay. The afternoon advanced; it was far advanced; 
the hour approached when Violet would come and take 
Punch for undesired exercise. But she did not come. 
Time passed, and still she did not come. Punch opened 
one eye ; he did not want to be taken for exercise, he never 
did, but he wondered why she did not come. It was 
strange; she was not ill or absent, but she did not come. 
He shut the eye again, and arranged himself for sleep. 
But his sleep was not what it had been ; he was vaguely un- 
easy ; things were strange that day. The hour passed, and 
still Violet did not come. He looked towards Harrison, 
but Harrison took no notice, only lay as before, eyes open, 
alert and watchful. 

Someone came from the house, not from the front where 
the dogs were, but from the side; they heard the step, but 
neither moved. The person came out on to the lawn within 
range of their vision. She was tall, tall as Violet, but she 


THE AUNTS 


1B7 


was nothing to either of them. She went her way on 
whatever concern took her from the house, and they re- 
mained where they were. Later there was another step, in 
the stable-yard this time ; they heard it, though human ears 
could not have done so, and recognized it as that of the man 
belonging to the car. He was nothing either; not quite a 
stranger — he had come yesterday afternoon when things 
were as they always had been — but a negligible person, one 
who did not belong to the house, and who smelt of the car. 
He was doing something to it now; they recognized the 
sound. It was getting ready to rush out of the yard in its 
ill-bred way. They had heard it do so several times since 
its coming yesterday; once late in the evening, at the time 
when one settled oneself for the night, and again later, and 
yet again later still, or earlier, when day was beginning to 
grow light. It had been to and fro in the morning, too, a 
little ; its coming and going adding to the general strange- 
ness; but it had been quiet now, as everything else had, 
for a long time, for hours. It was stirring again; it was 
coming to the house. They got up at its approach, and 
moved a little out of the way. Someone came out of the 
house, and Harrison went to see who it was, although he 
knew by the step it was no one who mattered. He ran 
quickly, pretending to himself he had expectations, then 
stopped dead a pace or two away. Punch did not go, he 
knew it was not Harrisons’s master; and as for his own 
mistress, the person who came out of the house was a man, 
one of those belonging to the car. Not the one who drove 
it, but the one who came with him yesterday and whose 
woman was in the house now, if she was not still in the 
garden. He got into the car, and it went away. Harrison 
watched it go ; Punch took no notice ; he felt no inclination 
to snap at its heels, as he usually liked to snap at cars when 
Violet was not there to prevent. He went back to the patch 
of sunlight, and lay down again. Soon Harrison joined 


138 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 

him, taking up the same position as before, so that he could 
watch the doorway. 

It was quiet for a long time after that, and for long they 
lay still. Harrison got up once, and refreshed himself with 
another smell at the stick, but came back and lay as before 
with his head on his paws. Punch did not move, partly 
afraid he might be going to meet belated exercise by so 
doing, partly afraid he might miss Violet when she should 
come to give it him. They both remained where they 
were, though the patch of sunlight was diminishing 
fast. 

It was almost completely gone, but they were both still 
there, still uneasily waiting, when the car returned. The 
two men who went in it came back, no one else; the one 
who came from the house went back into it ; the other who 
came with the car went away with it. He took it to the 
stables; they heard him, and heard him backing it into the 
coach-house, and shutting it in. They heard other doors 
shut and then the gate ; the man had gone away. Everyone 
seemed to have gone away, the yard was quiet, the space be- 
fore the house empty and growing shadowy ; nothing moved 
but the breeze, lessened now, and only gently stirring the 
fans of the chestnut tree. 

By-and-by there began to be sounds in the house, nice 
sounds, the clatter and rattle of dishes, the steps of servants 
going to and fro; it seemed as if the people within were 
waking at last to ordinary life. Punch got up, and went 
to look for something to eat; he cast a backward look at 
Harrison, but Harrison did not move ; he was afraid, should 
he go, the master might come out while he was gone — the 
master must come out sooner or later, his hat and stick 
were in the hall. Punch went round to the kitchen. But 
he did not find himself very hungry; he licked a dish and 
stole a chicken bone, but he did not relish either ; there was 
something wrong, something wrong somewhere, something 


THE AUNTS 


139 


wrong everywhere. He went by the back passage to the 
hall, and stood there a minute. People were at dinner in 
the dining-room in the ordinary way. Violet was there ; he 
applied his nose to the door, and knew, without going in, 
that she was there. But something was wrong, something 
was different. He felt uneasy and unhappy, and decided 
to go up and lie on her bed to comfort himself. He and 
Harrison were not supposed to go upstairs ; Harrison never 
did, but he did if he felt depressed and could avoid the 
servants. He went half-way upstairs, then stopped; went 
on a little, and stopped again; ran the rest of the way 
hastily, but halted at the top. He stood in the dusk, listen- 
ing and looking about. He was not afraid of being found 
and sent back, but he was afraid. He was afraid of some- 
thing, he did not know what. He turned round, and went 
downstairs again ; down the hall and out into the garden ; 
there was something upstairs which made him afraid, made 
him go out and sit close to Harrison. They sat so a long 
time, though the dew was falling, and the shadows deepen- 
ing. 

At last, when it was nearly dark, there was a sound at 
which they both pricked their ears. Violet came out of the 
house. Violet in dark clothes, hardly to be distinguished 
by human eyes in the gloom, but recognized by both before 
she was clear of the doorway. Both sprang upon her 
eagerly, the old fat dog as well as the other. But she put 
them gently from her and went on, as one unconscious and 
unseeing, to the sloping bank of the lawn. They sprang at 
her again, and tried to attract her attention ; tried to tell her 
there was something wrong, something that made one 
afraid upstairs; that the master’s hat and stick were in the 
hall, but he himself had not been forth all day. Harrison 
nuzzled to her, seeking to discover if she had been with the 
master, and licking her hand to tell her he had not.'' Punch 
ran a little way and made pretence of seeking the exercise 


140 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


he hated to distract her attention and break the set misery 
there was about her. 

But still she made no response until, all at once, a terrible 
thing happened — she sank down on the bank of the lawn, 
threw an arm about each, and, bowing down her head upon 
them, broke into weeping. 

“ He’s dead ! ” she whispered to them in a choked voice. 
“ He’s dead, my dears ! ” 

Cuthbert Yarborough was dead; quite suddenly, almost 
painlessly, he died, five months, not two years, after that 
visit to Harley Street, of which no one knew except the 
doctor and Sam. And of those two neither had looked for 
this speedy end, not even the doctor. Had he been asked 
he might perhaps have said it was better than he had looked 
for; things worse than sudden death may befall men in 
some diseases. Of other people, servants, friends, even 
closest kin, not one had an idea that the thing was in any 
way near him. He had not been very well for some days ; 
but there had been occasions through the spring and sum- 
mer when he was not very well — no one thought anything 
of it, not even Violet. 

Maud Lassiter and her husband were there at the time; 
and, though the one had not seen him for some years and 
the other only for a little while in the winter, neither no- 
ticed any great change in him on their arrival in the after- 
noon. 

Maud and her husband had come unexpectedly in their 
new touring car. They were on their way north, and 
Maud, remembering her promise of the winter and wishful 
to see her old home in its summer dress, decided they would 
turn a little out of the way to go to Countershell. They 
would, she said, arrive in mid-afternoon, walk down to the 
village, and renew acquaintance with old friends ; dine, and 
after dinner wander round the garden and orchard in the 


THE AUNTS 


141 


moonlight; stay the night, and go on their way again the 
next morning. So she planned, and so she did in part, for, 
though Cuddy was not well when they arrived, he was not 
ill and was delighted to see her and to fall in with what she 
might suggest. He went to the village with her and stayed 
as long as she did, although that was long enough to make 
them late for dinner. And although he owned to “ feeling 
queer ” when they returned, he did just go into the garden 
after dinner; Violet persuaded him to come in soon, and 
he did not go out again, but sat in his big chair in the study 
till ten o’clock, when he was taken seriously ill. 

The doctor was fetched as quickly as possible : the big car 
fetched him at its best speed ; but it was to little purpose. 
He stayed till the morning; reinforced by another, a man 
of wider experience, fetched from a greater distance at his 
suggestion, although he knew it was of no avail. Neither 
the one nor the other of them could do anything really, and 
in the first hours of the summer morning the car went out 
again, this time to fetch the old clergyman from the Rectory 
a mile away. 

It was fortunate that Maud was there ; Cuddy in his last 
spells of consciousness showed himself glad of it. His last 
words to her were : “ It’s rippin’ you’re here, old girl ! ” 

And, “ You’ll look after Jane — you’ll see after her, won’t 
you?” 

“Of course I will ! ” Maud said, and from the first took 
everything upon herself. 

She did not try to comfort Violet, numb with grief ; she 
felt it folly, impertinence even, to intrude upon her; but 
she did the best and kindest thing — put her to bed to re- 
cover from the physical effects of the shock, and left her a 
good deal to herself for the first day. 

By the second Violet had so far recovered her balance as 
to be ready to do what she ought, grief notwithstanding. 
She was quiet and white, but quite calm and prepared to do 


142 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


what should be done and to assume responsibility, as she 
always had assumed it throughout her life. But on this 
occasion there was nothing for her to do. Maud did every- 
thing in her generous way. She ordered mourning, and 
proposed to pay for all herself ; she gave orders, which her 
husband or others executed; despatched telegrams; saw 
those who came to inquire — the Rector, the Burbidges, or 
others. She devoted herself to this occasion of death as 
she had devoted herself to all the happy occasions of life in 
which she had shared — thoroughly and to the exclusion of 
everything else. Violet had nothing to do from the time of 
her father’s death to the time of his funeral, except to try 
and comfort Harrison and to pretend to accept Punch’s 
efforts to comfort her and distract her attention. 

There were not many relations to attend the funeral. 
Enid, an incurable invalid now, was somewhere in North- 
ern Italy; and of more distant Yarborough kin, there was 
only an elderly cousin on the father’s side, a lady too old 
to travel; and on the mother’s, a precise little old gentle- 
man of limited means and distant connection. He punc- 
tiliously attended, although he found it difficult to pay the 
railway fare. Mr. and Mrs. White, and Mr. and Mrs. 
Percy Kingston also attended. Maud, only vaguely aware 
of their existence, would have forgotten them had not 
Violet brought them to her mind. 

Mrs. White and Mrs. Percy Kingston travelled from 
town together, their husbands in a near smoking compart- 
ment. Mrs. White was a little stouter than when they went 
to Countershell together six years ago, otherwise she looked 
no older. Mrs. Kingston looked a good deal older, not 
from the back — from that view she looked much the same, 
and so nearly young — except that she was not flexible — 
that her face, with its network of fine lines and dull eyes, 
came almost as a shock. She complained a little that it was 


THE AUNTS 


143 


a trial to have to get black at this time of the year, and 
Mrs. White cast a disapproving glance at her fashionably 
narrow skirt and upstanding hat, but said nothing about it. 
The occasion was not one when either of them felt it right 
to devote very much consideration to dress. 

They spoke of other and more suitable topics — of Cuddy, 
of the suddenness of his death and the nature of his illness ; 
then of Vie’s death, seven years back; and her illness, and 
of other illnesses and diseases, principally internal ones. 
Mrs. Kingston was something of a specialist on internal 
complaints now — nervous of her own health, and apt to col- 
lect details of any cases, especially surgical ones, among her 
friends. She spoke of several to-day; but Mrs. White did 
not encourage her with attention, she was thinking of some- 
thing else, and broke in upon the history of a tumour to 
say: 

“ What is going to become of Violet? ” 

“ I don’t know,” Mrs. Kingston said helplessly. “ I sup- 
pose Cuthbert will have appointed guardians.” 

“ He may,” Mrs. White said with emphasis on the last 
word, which plainly expressed a contrary opinion. 

Mrs. Kingston ignored the emphasis, and remarked that 
if there were guardians they would no doubt decide what 
was to be done. 

“ And if there are not, they won’t,” Mrs. White said. 

That was self-evident and so unnecessary to answer. 
Mrs. Kingston did not answer, but gave her attention to the 
buttons on her skirt, which were of a different pattern to 
the one she had ordered. 

But Mrs. White was not diverted from Violet. “ Of 
course, she will go to school for a year, or perhaps two,” 
she said. “ For that reason there may be some advantage 
for her even in this loss; she will have some education. 
But there are the holidays ” 

“ I can’t have her,” Mrs. Kingston said. “ I really can’t 


144 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


have her all the holidays, Mary; you know that. I have 
not the strength, and I have only a single spare room now, 
and that quite a little one.” 

The Kingstons had left the suburb where the Whites still 
lived, and gone to a flat in Bedford Park. “ I shall, of 
course, be pleased to have her to stay sometimes,” Mrs. 
Kingston said. “ Poor child ! I’m sure I would always do 
what I could for her — have her to stay, and take her about 
to theatres, and so on, when she is out of mourning; but I 
really could not undertake the responsibility of her alto- 
gether. I should feel it a great responsibility ” 

She went on to enlarge on the theme, and on the fact 
that Percy would not like a third person added to their 
Darby and Joan menage . 

Mrs. White did not listen; it was by now one of her 
characteristics, that of not listening if she considered what 
a person said liable to be foolish, untrue, beside the point, 
or otherwise unworthy of attention. 

“We have not very much room now the chicks are 
grown up,” she said, thinking aloud ; “ still, of course we 
could put her in. We will put her in if it comes to that! 
But Pm afraid the girls won’t like it.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs. Kingston said hopefully. “ I 
should have thought they would like to have her; it would 
be another sister for them.” 

“ Rubbish ! ” Mrs. White replied. “ If you can’t remem- 
ber your own girlhood more clearly than to imagine that, 
think of any family of girls you know. Of course, they 
won’t be pleased to have another one put in among them on 
those terms — one quite unlike themselves, quite differently 
brought up. A visit is one thing ; they might like that well 
enough and get on well enough for it; but for all the holi- 
days and every holiday, practically another member added 
to the family, it is quite a different affair. And as for when 
schooldays are over ” 


THE AUNTS 


145 


She stopped, the contemplation of that from the point of 
view of her family was difficult even to her vigorous mind. 
Still, after a moment she said firmly, “ Well, if it comes to 
it, they’ll have to have it, and make the best of it, that’s all 
about it.” 

Soon after, the station was reached ; and from the station 
they drove straight to the church — the big, flint-built church 
with the green glass windows and the sense of remoteness 
and silence and space. It was nearly full to-day — humble 
folk from the village, tradesmen and well-to-do people from 
Denham, and others of more consequence, who had come 
from the country round to pay respect to the last Yarbor- 
ough of Countershell. Mrs. Kingston, glancing round, was 
impressed by the number of people and the appearance of 
some of them. Then her eyes fell on Violet, and filled with 
sympathetic tears. Mrs. White’s grew dim, too, as they 
rested on the tall girl with the white face beside Lady Las- 
siter. To both, the service and the occasion centred round 
her far more than the dead. Both were a good deal moved, 
and after the ceremony kissed her tenderly. 

The afternoon trains back to London were awkward ; 
there had to be a somewhat long interval between the fu- 
neral and the departure of those who had come from town to 
attend it. Maud had not thought of this beforehand, and, 
when she was confronted with the fact, found it a little dis- 
concerting — that is, she found Mrs. White and Mrs. Percy 
Kingston so. They were the only women there, besides her- 
self and Violet, and they appeared to be of the sort that 
holds to the practice of separating men and women on for- 
mal occasions, and expecting others to do likewise. They 
expected her to, and, what is more, compelled her to do it, 
and left themselves on her hands. She did not know quite 
what to do with them, after seeing them fed. Conversation, 
as she understood it, seemed out of the question ; the occa- 
sion was unsuitable, or they made it feel so. And they were 


146 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


unsuitable ; they did not seem to quite comprehend what she 
said, nor she what they did, nor why they should say it. 
She was glad of Violet; she helped the talk, and was, be- 
sides, a species of link between them and herself. Violet, 
of course, knew them, and they were relations of hers ; and 
she really — it was wonderful of her — seemed able to get on 
with them. She determined to leave them with her for a 
little; they were fond of her, and wanted to talk to her, 
and, no doubt, she to them ; it would be kindest to all par- 
ties to leave them unembarrassed together. She moved; 
but at that minute Mrs. White said : “ Violet dear, I want 
to speak to Lady Lassiter about several things.” 

Violet rose dutifully. “ Aunt Lilia and I will go in the 
garden,” she said. 

“ Shall we all go ? ” Maud suggested hastily. “ It’s aw- 
fully stuffy indoors; let’s go out. Why didn’t I think of it 
before ? ” 

She went towards the door ; but Mrs. White said : “ I 
think it would be better if we remain here ; we shall be more 
undisturbed. Violet, your Aunt Lilia wants to talk to Lady 
Lassiter too.” 

Mrs. Kingston acquiescing in this, Violet went out alone, 
and Maud was left with the other two. 

“ A little hard, dismissing her like that, isn’t it ? ” she pro- 
tested. “ Don’t you think she’ll rather feel it ? ” 

She felt it for her and for herself too. 

But Mrs. White did not. “ We must talk over her fu- 
ture and what’s to become of her,” she said. “ We can’t 
do that satisfactorily with her present.” 

“Her future?” Maud said, opening her eyes. “What 
about it?” 

Cuddy had appointed no guardian — indeed, made little 
provision at all. Though Mr. Tyler had returned to the 
house after the funeral, there was no will drawn by him to 
read. There was nothing but the sheet of notepaper on 


THE AUNTS 


147 


which the old Rector, with a commendable recollection of 
things of this world, had set forth a brief bequest of every- 
thing there might be to Violet; and which Cuddy had just 
managed to sign, after saying, in reply to inquiry, that Maud 
and her husband would see after it. It was, of course, 
sufficient, especially as there was no one to dispute it and 
not much to dispute; but Mrs. White felt Violet and her 
immediate future were by no means arranged for by it. 

Not so Maud. ‘‘What’s to become of her?” She re- 
peated the elder woman’s words in some astonishment. 
“ Why she’s coming with me.” 

“ Is that what her father settled ? ” Mrs. White asked. 
“ Of course you and Sir Edward were mentioned in the will 
— if it can be called a will. I suppose you are trustees ” 

“Are we?” Maud said. “I suppose we are. Yes, to 
be sure we are. Ted’ll see after that, or Tyler, or some- 
body. But, anyway, it wouldn’t make any difference. Of 
course, Violet’s coming with me — where else should she 
go?” 

“ I thought it was possible her father might have ar- 
ranged that she should come to us, Mrs. Kingston, or me, 
or both of us, for at all events part of the time. She is my 
sister’s child.” 

The last was in answer to Maud’s look of surprise. 

“ Oh,” Maud said comprehendingly — “ oh, I see. I ” 

She was going to say, “ I never thought of that,” but 
stopped in time. “ So she is! Yes — she’s your niece, isn’t 
she?” 

Mrs. White said she was, and repeated that she herself 
had thought it possible Cuddy might have named her and 
her sister in connection with Violet’s future ; that they were 
prepared to do what was required, and naturally felt in- 
terest in her. 

“ It’s awfully sweet of you,” Maud said warmly and with 
her engaging smile — “awfully good! I know Violet will 


148 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


be frightfully grateful, so’d Cuddy if he knew. He didn’t 
mention you, it’s true — there wasn’t much time, you know ; 
he wasn’t able to do much more than hand Violet over to 
me. We’ve always been pals, he and I, so of course he 
asked me to look after her.” 

“ Yes,” Mrs. Kingston agreed, “ quite natural. I’m sure 
it is very good of you to assume the whole responsibility in 
this way.” (She was not aware that Maud was not con- 
sciously assuming any responsibility.) “ I must admit I 
should have felt it almost too much, single-handed ; but then 
I’m not very strong, and my flat is so tiny. I shall hope to 
see her sometimes — to see a good deal of her. Anything I 
can do at any time, I hope you will let me know.” 

Mrs. White said words to the last effect, but her offers 
were more explicit and emphatic. She was less satisfied 
with the arrangement than her sister, though at the same 
time more really impressed with its generosity. She could 
not hide from herself that it would have been very incon- 
venient to her to adopt Violet into her own family ; but that 
Lady Lassiter should, was not what Vie would have wished. 
She hardly knew what to say, and determined to think the 
matter over before accepting the arrangement as final, and 
in the meanwhile to give some advice about schools and fix 
a near date for Violet to visit her. 

Violet, during this talk, had gone into the garden, the 
two dogs with her. She took a book, and went round the 
house to the grassy path under the lilacs which passed by 
the study window towards the potting shed; a favourite 
walk in days when Cuddy was in the study, occupied — as 
he was pleased to think — with business. 

Lassiter was in the study now, and with him Mr. White 
— a shrewd, kindly man, with grizzled hair, and sound views 
on things within his range. Mr. Percy Kingston was also 
there, and the precise little gentleman, Mr. Yarborough’s 
cousin, and Mr. Tyler the lawyer. They were talking to- 


THE AUNTS 


149 


gether in a desultory way, their voices floating out on the 
warm air and reaching Violet as she passed along. 

“ Must sell, of course,” Lassiter was saying. 

He did not say what must be sold, but Mr. White re- 
marked that it was a bad time just now for the sale of 
land, and Mr. Tyler said: 

“ Burbidge ’ll buy what land there is left, I’ve not doubt 
about that, though he won’t pay more than the market value 
for it; it won’t be a bit of good standing out for more. 
He won’t want the house, of course.” 

“ Shouldn’t think anyone would,” Percy Kingston ob- 
served — “ inconvenient, out of repair, no situation.” 

“ I’m afraid you may have trouble in disposing of it,” 
Mr. White said more mildly. “ People are shy of house 
property; but you’ll be able to sell at some sort of a price 
and, in the circumstances, I suppose, you’d be content with 
what you can get ; it’s the better way.” 

Violet stopped; she had hardly heeded what she heard, 
but she felt suddenly as if the two last speakers were look- 
ing round as they spoke — looking round about them, appris- 
ing their surrounding. She could not see them, but she 
felt they were doing it — were apprising Countershell. She 
stopped short where she was. 

“ I’m sorry — sorry,” she heard the lawyer say regret- 
fully. “ I’m sorry it’s come to it. Of course it has come 
to it. I quite agree with you, Sir Edward. I dare say I 
appreciate the fact even better than you do, for I know the 
state of affairs better. You wouldn’t be doing right by 
Miss Violet if you did not sell; there will be little enough 
for her even then. Good thing it’s a girl; it matters less; 
the name ends anyhow. But I’m sorry; there have been 
Yarboroughs at Countershell for a long time; we, my father 
and my grandfather before me, have done work for them 
for a very long time.” 

“ Countershell ? ” The word smote on Violet’s ears. 


150 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


She was right, then; it was Countershell they were speak- 
ing of. They were going to sell Countershell ! 

The comprehension came with an overwhelming rush, 
and she turned and fled down the grass path. She fled 
stumblingly, hardly realizing she went or that she had 
listened, might still have listened and heard more — realiz- 
ing one thing only, they were going to sell Countershell. 
For a little she went blindly; then, beyond the bend in the 
path, her foot struck against fallen masonry, the plinth of 
an overturned urn, and she was brought to a halt as if sud- 
denly unable to go any farther. She sank down on the 
stonework, and sat there, hands clenched, eyes wide, star- 
ing out through the interlaced lilac stems into the Unbeliev- 
able, which was true, and the Impossible, which was going 
to happen. The seemingly impossible, or indefinitely re- 
mote, had already happened, and what had been, or felt, 
immutable had already come to an end — her father was 
dead, Countershell was to be sold, the end of all things had 
come. 

For a time she sat still in the blank of utter blackness, 
which does not hope, or reason, or rebel, and which is, per- 
haps, the prerogative of the young. Then gradually the 
tide of emotion set back. She shivered as if she were very 
cold, and stirred a little, looking round with eyes that saw 
trivial things — the lights and shadows through the lilac 
leaves, Punch close beside her, Harrison questing a way 
off. Her mind stirred with her body. She began to cast 
round for something to be done, something to be said, some- 
thing at least which would help her to endure. 

If only Sam were here! She had wanted him often dur- 
ing the past days. Over and over again in the strange long 
empty hours she had thought of him. If he could but have 
just walked in through some open door, or down some gar- 
den path! He would have understood completely, shared 
all she felt, and advised with cheery counsel how to cure or 


THE AUNTS 


151 


how to stand up against what must be endured. And now 
— now, much more than before, her mind went to him — if 
only he were here! Then suddenly a thought occurred. 
Before he went away he had written : “If ever you are in 
great trouble let me know.” This was great trouble; she 
could not conceive of greater. He might not be able to 
help, no one could that she could see, but there would be 
comfort in telling him. She yearned to do so, yearned pas- 
sionately for his sympathy, feeling as if the mere passing 
of words would annihilate space and bring it close to her. 

She went into the house and, by the back stairs, to her 
own room. There she took out the code Sam had sent her 
before he left for Africa. No one knew she had it; even 
Cuddy had never known. It had arrived on a day when he 
was not well, so she had not spoken of it at the time, and 
afterwards she had withheld it, feeling instinctively it would 
trouble him. She took it out now and, sitting down, wrote 
the message she wanted to send. It was not long, and she 
found she had to recast it once before she could code it, 
but in the end it conveyed what was necessary — “Father 
died; they are selling Counter shell” Coded, it was but 
three words — “ Fektogahno Felgu Countershell” but with 
a sufficient address added, it came rather expensive at two 
shillings and eleven pence a word. She went to a drawer, 
and took out the purse containing her housekeeping money ; 
it troubled her honesty to use it for this purpose, but there 
was no help; she had not enough in her small private ex- 
chequer, and the case was urgent if ever one could be. She 
slipped the purse into her pocket, put on her hat, and went 
down and out again by the back way. It was three and a 
half miles to the nearest telegraph office ; hurry as she might, 
she could not be back until after the Whites and Kingstons 
had left. She had not said good-bye to them; it was dis- 
courteous and perhaps unkind not to do so; she was sorry 
for it as for taking the housekeeping money; but for that, 


152 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


as for the other, there was no help. She must get her 
message to Sam; it seemed to her, then, that she must get 
it to him now, at once, with no time lost. He was the one 
person left in all the world who would understand, who, 
help or no help, would feel as she felt, would enter into it 
with her, and so must know. 


CHAPTER VIII 
AUNT MAUD 



IOLET left Countershell soon after her father’s fu- 


* neral; and though she knew it uncertain when she 
would come back again, she was not in all ways sorry the 
time had come to go. If it had to come, it were better 
soon; she felt she would rather go than anticipate going 
in uncertainty and unhappiness, and circumstances far 
other than the beloved ones of the past. With regard to 
the prospective sale of the house, she had been much re- 
assured. Sam had answered her cable by a message, which, 
interpreted by the little book, read: ** Cheer up; tell Tyler 
to wait my letter On that she had written to Mr. Tyler ; 
and from him received a reply to the effect that he would, 
if she desired, advise the trustees to await Mr. Bailey’s let- 
ter; but that, as she no doubt knew from communicating 
with them, there was no necessity, as nothing would be 
done for some considerable time after it was possible a let- 
ter from Central Africa could be received. 

She did not know this before, not having felt able to 
speak to either Maud or her husband on a subject so near 
her heart. She was immensely relieved to hear it now, and 
to know there was no prospect of an immediate sale of 
Countershell as she had feared in her first misery. The 
house would not be sold for a long time, perhaps not at all. 
Sam might advise against it; his cable, which she kept 
folded away as a treasure, cheered her almost as if it were 
a personal presence. To leave Countershell now, with the 
furniture and old familiar objects all in it, was not like leav- 
ing it as one who had no hope of return. And to stay in it 


153 


154 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


now was not like staying in it in the old circumstances 
which made a part of the home that was gone. The father, 
who was half a father and half a child to her, was gone; 
and Maud was come. 

Maud’s brilliant all-pervading presence was everywhere 
— in the village, in the garden, in the house — her voice, her 
laugh, her handkerchief, the litter of her belongings, the 
mention of her name, something of her everywhere, and her- 
self in all. She gave herself to doing what was to be done, 
turning out papers and drawers, refusing to quit them for 
meals ; though leaving them open for the wind or the house- 
maid to scatter when she went to talk to some former ac- 
quaintance in the village or to see Mr. Burbidge. She went 
out once to try Mr. Burbidge’s new car, and was gone two 
hours. She usually was gone from one to two hours when 
she left ; and when she came back seldom remembered what 
she had been doing before starting, becoming absorbed in 
some other piece of work. 

Violet did her best unostentatiously to fill the gaps created 
by Maud’s method, and at the same time to take orders 
from her when any were given. Cuddy, with almost his 
last breath, had said Maud would look after her; and the 
wishes of the dead being sacred, she would subscribe to this 
one if Maud was willing to do her part. Maud was; she 
was very kind indeed, and Violet was grateful to her ; and, 
thinking that, too, part of her father’s will, tried to feel for 
her as he had and to see her as Sam had presented her. 
But when Maud said they would go to Grange Hall, where 
Lassiter had preceded them, she was not very sorry; it 
might be easier perhaps away from Counter shell and its as- 
sociations. So they went to Grange Hall ; and Punch and 
Harrison went with them ; Maud said of course they must 
come, for which Violet was deeply grateful. 

Maud did not remain long at Grange Hall. Lassiter had 
taken a shooting in Scotland that year and went North be- 


AUNT MAUD 


155 


fore the twelfth. By the middle of August Maud joined 
him. She did not bring Violet; a girl, not yet seventeen 
and in deep mourning, would not have been happy with 
even the small parties they would entertain, as well, per- 
haps, as being somewhat out of place. Jack and his nurse 
were going to Devonshire to the sea. Violet, Maud said, 
had better go with them; she looked white and ill; the 
change would do her good. Mrs. Percy Kingston had of- 
fered to take her to Cromer ; she had offered it on the day of 
the funeral, when she squeezed Violet’s hand and kissed her 
tearfully; and she had meant it too, although the Golf 
Hotel, at which she and her husband stayed, was rather 
dear. The invitation was refused. Maud, when it was re- 
peated to her, thanked Mrs. Kingston warmly, but said Vio- 
let was coming with her Her private thought was : “ It 

would be too awful for the poor child to be with that little 
woman and her wonderful man, though of course it was 
nice of them to suggest it.” 

So Violet and Punch and Harrison went to Devonshire 
with Jack and the nurse, and at least one person enjoyed 
the addition to the party: Jack had a better time than he 
had ever before had at the sea. Violet made sand castles 
for him, and waded with him, and carried him across slip- 
pery rocks and deep pools full of wonderful things. She 
read to him on wet days, and taught him hymns, and told 
him stories ; she adopted him in the place of Cuddy, and it 
helped to ease her heartache as nothing else could. 

In September she received the expected letter from Sam 
— as long a letter as the early departure of the native run- 
ner, which constituted the first stage of its journey, would 
allow. It was a sympathetic letter, but with regard to the 
selling of Countershell he wrote : ' 

“ If the executors have decided the house is to be sold, I 
am afraid there must be real need for it. I do not know 
who has the managing of affairs; but I suppose Tyler is ad~ 


156 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


vising , and he would advise against the sale of it, if it were 
at all wise; he has a great notion for a Yarborough at 
Countershell. Maud, I imagine, has a say in matters, either 
herself or through her husband, and she loved the place very 
well. If they say it ought to be sold, Fm afraid it is the 
wise thing to do. The probability is it is not possible to do 
anything else without leaving you a beggar maid.” 

He explained the probable situation so far as he knew it 
and could make it clear ; afterwards he set forth two alter- 
native suggestions: 

“If sold Countershell has got to be,” he wrote. “One 
of two things might happen. One — we might get Maud to 
buy. I imagine the house and the garden will be sold by 
themselves, and will not fetch a great deal. Maud might 
buy them, or, rather, Lassiter for Maud. The money he 
settled on her would not allow of her doing it herself, but 
he's rich and he'd do any mortal thing she wished. She 
might like to have the house for old time's sake and as a 
sort of summer house to go to occasionally, and for her boy. 
By that means it would remain in the family, and you 
would be able to be there a great deal. She may think of 
this idea herself, though I doubt it; but if it is put to her, 
I'm pretty certain she will rise to it. If you would like her 
to do so, give her the enclosed letter — which, of course, may 
not do the trick, though I shouldn't be surprised if it did. 

“The other alternative is that I buy Countershell. I'm 
not a millionaire, as you know, but I could manage that, 
and I should ever after be able to fancy myself as a landed 
proprietor, with a property on which I could raise money. 
Countershell would feel cold without a mortgage on it. 
The disadvantages of this scheme are that I do not belong 
to the family, and that the place would stand empty and 
go to worse dilapidation than before — till you and your hus- 
band or someone else was inclined to rent it from me. The 
advantages are that, though not family, I care about the 


AUNT MAUD 


157 


place ; also , you would be able to go there whenever you 
felt inclined. At all events , it would be better for me to 
have it than that it should be turned into a dairy farm , or a 
genteel house receiving a few paying guests. 

“ If you prefer the last plan, tear up the letter addressed 
to Maud; and send the other one I enclose to Tyler. 

“ Think it over, and do which you think best and prefer.” 

These suggestions were all that Sam had to offer, and 
were made without any indication of a preference on his 
own part; indeed, it appeared that he had none. Violet 
so interpreted the letter, and she read it carefully ; she took 
it that he, now as always before, was dealing honestly with 
her, and meant it when, towards the end of the letter, he 
said that it was a matter she alone must decide, without ref- 
erence to anyone but herself. 

The decision so considered did not take long to make — 
Countershell a summer-house, a place to go to occasionally, 
for Maud to bring people to when the fit took her ! Maud 
at Countershell! She might have been a Yarborough; she 
was not now. The place was nothing to her — nothing real ; 
not her home, and never should be ! But Sam was differ- 
ent. He and she and her father had had happy days there ; 
he cared about it as they did. If she could not have it, she 
would like him to above anyone on earth. 

She destroyed the letter to Maud, and sent on the one to 
Tyler. 

A few days later it happened she heard from Maud — not 
on the subject of Countershell, but on that of school. Maud 
had decided she should go to school in Germany for a year. 
An old General, who had been staying with the Lassiters in 
Scotland, and was full of the musical success of a niece edu- 
cated at some place in South Germany, had fired Maud’s 
enthusiasm. She had decided this would be the thing for 
Violet ; inquired terms, which were found to be rather disap- 


158 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


pointingly low ; made arrangements ; and now wrote to tell 
her she was to go, and to come to Town to get some clothes 
preparatory as soon as possible. 

To Violet, unused to Maud’s ways, the suddenness of this 
decision was bewildering. It was as unexpected, too, as 
sudden. There had been no talk of any such thing when 
she had last seen Maud ; in truth, no thought of it on Maud’s 
part. Violet felt she wanted time to get used to the idea. 
She had not long to do it in ; but as it happened, she man- 
aged to perceive one useful thing in that time — one which 
some people fail to perceive in the course of a long life, 
though no lives are without some opportunities for it — 
this : that the question was not whether she would like to go 
or not, but whether she would go, or go protesting. And 
common sense, and dignity and economy of strength and 
energy, pointed to the first course, not the last. 

Fortified, if not cheered, by this thought and by the other 
— that she was hardly likely to be more of a stranger in 
Germany than in Grange Hall — she went to Town as Maud 
ordered. There she was met by the maid, Norris, who 
Maud, still in Scotland, had sent to superintend the shop- 
ping, and do what sewing was necessary. Maud intended 
to come South soon, the woman said, in time to find an es- 
cort for Germany. In the meantime, Violet, when the 
shopping was done, was to wait her arrival at Grange 
Hall. 

But Violet, after thinking it over, decided she could 
not do what was required of her. When they left 
Countershell in August, Maud had said they would go 
back later and finish there. She must have forgotten that 
now, and there was no time to write and remind her. 
Violet would have preferred writing and asking permission ; 
she did not like transgressing Maud’s expressed wishes. 
But there was no help for it ; the time was short, and to go 
to Countershell was necessary. So she made up her mind 


AUNT MAUD 


159 


to write and tell Maud about it, but to go without waiting 
for her answer. 

“You go to Grange Hall/’ she said to Norris. “You 
had better take Harrison with you, I think. I’ll take Punch 
with me. I must go to Countershell.” 

And she went. 

Maud came home from Scotland the day before Violet 
started for Germany. She had meant to come earlier, but 
stayed in Edinburgh with friends she met unexpectedly on 
the way South. She had not, consequently, been able per- 
sonally to see after an escort for Violet ; but she telegraphed 
to Cook’s to undertake the superintendence of the journey, 
which, no doubt, would answer as well. She arrived at 
Grange Hall late in the evening, Violet having arrived the 
day before. 

She was not at all vexed that Violet should have been to 
Countershell ; indeed, she had sent her word to that effect, 
and to stay till she herself came home, if she liked. She 
asked a little about her doings, and seemed more amused 
than anything else at the idea of her trying to set things in 
order. 

“ Though,” she said, “ it is quite an excellent thing you 
should be taken that way, for — you may have observed it — 
I am not.” 

She did not say much more on the subject; there were a 
good many other things to be talked about. Also she 
was very full of her visit to Edinburgh, which place she 
had not seen thoroughly before, and which she now de- 
scribed minutely to Violet, declaring she must see it; she 
herself should take her. She began to plan how and when 
they could go when Norris came in, with some question 
about Violet’s packing, now nearly finished, ready for her 
departure to-morrow. 

Maud, suddenly reminded, went upstairs to see the clothes 
which had been bought. Most of them were packed, but 


160 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


she had them unpacked that she might see they were really 
suitable. She was not quite satisfied, and said several ar- 
ticles should be got and sent after. 

“ I don’t think I shall want them,” Violet said. “ There’s 
heaps of everything, and — do you think we ought to spend 
any more money ? ” 

“ Why not ? ” Maud asked. “ I’m not bankrupt yet.” 

“ Are these things going to be paid for with your 
money ? ” Violet asked anxiously. “ Oh, but, they oughtn’t ! 
They ought to be paid for with mine ! ” 

“ What ever for ? ” Maud said laughing. “ My dear 
child, ‘ your money ’ is what may be called a problematic af- 
fair — problem, find it. You may have sixpence, or you may 
not. You may even be heiress to fifty pounds a year, or, 
perhaps, if Fate is kind, to the stupendous hundred — Lord 
knows! I don’t, and everyone else don’t and won’t for 
ever so long. It doesn’t matter that I see. Come along 
downstairs, and don’t be a goose. Bring the dogs with you. 
By the way, where’s Punch ? ” 

“ I left him behind when I came back from Countershell. 
But — about the money ” 

But Maud would not listen about money. There was 
nothing to say, she said, and she wanted to hear about 
Punch. “ Why did you leave him at Countershell ? ” she 
asked. “ I thought you were so fond of him ? Why didn’t 
you bring him back; you could have seen him when you 
come home here. There, you won’t be able to.” 

“ I know,” Violet said. “ But it couldn’t be helped. You 
see, he’s rather deaf and rather blind, and not quick at turn- 
ing round or getting out of the way of motors, and he will 
run and bark at them when I am not there. Harrison has 
more sense about them, and he’s younger ; he’ll be all right 
here if you will have him ; but I was afraid Punch might do 
something stupid and get hurt.” 


AUNT MAUD 


161 


“ I suppose there is some chance of it,” Maud admitted. 
“ I dare say he’s better off where he is. Who’s got him ? ” 

“ Mr. Tyler.” 

“ Tyler ! What made you pitch on him ? Of all the un- 
doggy men I should have said he’s the most undoggish ! ” 

“ He likes Punch,” Violet said. “ I think he’ll be nice 
to him. He offered to have him. I did not ask him. I 
went to him, to ask how I could get some money to pay 
Walters to look after Punch, and he said he should like 
to take him himself, and I agreed. Punch will be much 
happier there than in Walters’ cottage; he’ll get more to 
eat. I don’t know that I ought to have accepted, for I 
could not offer to pay Mr. Tyler, and Punch eats a great 
deal. I did arrange that if he was ill, and had to have the 
vet., it was to be paid for out of my money ” 

She broke off, the disturbing uneasiness about money re- 
curring. 

Maud stared at her. “ What an extraordinary crea- 
ture ! ” she said. 

(Mr. Tyler had said: “ Very well, my dear young lady, 
since you wish it, I will charge it to the estate,” and had 
looked out of the window with attention when Violet said 
good-bye to the old dog.) 

The next day Violet started for Germany, and took with 
her, as almost the only thing from the old life, uncertainty 
about money. That uncertainty had been with her for a 
good many years, if as nothing more than an influence in 
matters of choice and something entering most considera- 
tions. Now, however, it had assumed a more definite 
form. Maud’s words on the day before she left England 
brought sharply to her what had before been vague though 
disquieting. She tried to get a little more information be- 
fore she went away, but failed. Maud really knew nothing, 
and did not see why anyone else should want to know. 


162 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


Taking thought for the morrow was so little a characteristic 
of hers, that she not only did not see the need for it in 
others, but hardly recognized it either. 

So Violet went away uninformed and uncertain as to her 
future, and more anxious than of old on the troublesome 
subj ect of money. But this anxiety had one advantage ; it 
helped to reconcile her to going to Germany ; and, what was 
more difficult, to remaining when she got there. In her 
most desolate and homesick times she cheered herself with 
the thought that here and now she might have an oppor- 
tunity of learning something by which she could perhaps 
earn a living in the future, should there prove to be need for 
her to do it. She did not confide this to Maud, who, she 
knew, would neither approve nor really understand; but, 
supported by it, she set herself diligently to repair what she 
could of the gaps in her education, and to cultivate any 
small faculties of a marketable order that she might possess. 
And the doing so did a good deal towards making tolerable 
the time in Germany, although that proved to be longer than 
the promised year. 


CHAPTER IX 
VIOLET GROWN UP 


T T was nearly two years after Cuddy died that Sam came 
home. He came to Grange Hall the day he arrived in 
England. Maud had told him to do so ; or, rather, she had 
told Violet to, in answer to the letter in which he had said 
he was soon coming home. 

Sam took her at her word. He had telegraphed from 
Marseilles to say about when he would arrive ; but the tele- 
gram, which he had not had time to despatch himself, had 
gone wrong somewhere, and not been delivered. He 
reached Grange Hall unannounced in the dusk of a June 
evening. 

It was after nine o’clock, but not yet dark. Violet was 
still in the garden ; she came round the corner of the house 
as he reached the door — Violet taller than ever, though with 
more of grace and dignity in her long limbs ; with the abund- 
ant light hair round her head, and with eyes that still looked 
out gravely and straightly, but with a difference ; Violet, be- 
neath the white rose arch in a summer twilight, a woman. 
Sam, at the sight of her, wondered suddenly why he had 
ever mourned for the passing of the girl of the sand hills. 

“ Samuel ! ” she cried, and halted a second. Then she 
flew to him, the girl, almost the child again. 

“ Oh, Samuel ! Oh, I am so glad you’ve come ! ” she al- 
most sobbed. 

He put an arm about her, as he would the girl of previous 
years. “ Hold up,” he said as he would have done then — 
“ hold up, my Jane.” 

She recovered herself quickly. “ I — I’m sorry,” she said. 
“ You startled me ; we didn’t expect you so soon.” 

163 


164 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ You didn’t get my wire? I sent one from Marseilles; 
at least, someone undertook to do it for me, and appears not 
to have done so. ‘ Put not your trust in any child of man/ 
even one wearing a uniform and a grand air.” 

“ I thought you would come to-morrow,” Violet said. 
(t Maud said you wouldn’t be here till Saturday. I must 
telegraph to her that you have come.” 

But it was too late to do so now; telegrams were not to 
be sent after eight o’clock in that district. Sam reminded 
Violet of the fact, and she accepted it without any very ob- 
vious regret, and they went indoors together. 

In the house, which was lighted, she saw him plainly for 
the first time. 

“ Samuel ! ” she exclaimed, “ you’ve been ill.” 

“ I have,” he said ; “ but it’s ancient history now. When 
was it? Oh, some while before I left 4 Africa’s sunny 
fountains/ which, by the way, are not very fountainous ; 
swamps are the chief characteristics of the waterscape in 
the part of the continent I last inhabited — which is not a 
health resort.” 

“ Why didn’t you tell me ? ” Violet asked with her earnest 
regard on the shrunken figure and pinched yellow face, from 
which the boyish eyes, less bright than of old, looked out 
incongruously. 

“ What was the good of telling? ” he asked. “ If I was 
little ill and could write, there was no point in telling what 
would be cured and forgotten before you could hear ; if I 
was very ill and couldn’t write, what point in a Goanese 
spreading himself on paper to tell what would, likely, be 
over and done with for good, and all before you could get 
the screed? I considered the matter during the first stage 
of affairs, and came to the conclusion it was not to the pur- 
pose; so I made my will, turned up my toes, and lay by a 
while.” 

“Were you so very ill?” she said in an awed voice. 


VIOLET GROWN UP 


165 


“ Yes, Jane, he answered soberly; “ I was very ill; what 
might be called almost a goner ; I don’t know why I wasn’t 
quite, except that, like some horny little beetles, I seem to 
take a deal of killing.” 

She looked at him silently a moment with wide eyes. 
“ Supposing you had died ! ” she said almost in a whisper. 

He avoided her glance. “ Then I expect I should have 
been buried,” he said cheerfully. “ V. J., it is not polite to 
stare thus; it reminds me too forcibly that I’ve lost my 
looks, that youth and beauty are far behind. Let’s have 
something to eat, and tell me where Maud is, and all about 
everything.” 

Violet, reminded of the duties of hostess, attended to 
them, carefully avoiding looking at him again. She knew 
every detail without — the grey in his light hair, not very 
visible to the casual observer because the hair was so light, 
but not to be overlooked by her ; the sunken eyes ; the lines 
round the whimsical mouth ; the stoop of the shoulders ; the 
effort in the movement of the formerly alert, quick figure. 
She did not think of him as looking old ; when, later, some- 
one spoke of him as having aged, she utterly disagreed. 
He had not aged to her thinking; that which was he would 
never age; only the envelope which held it had been very 
badly used and was worn thin, so thin it seemed the vital 
thing shone through as if there was danger it might break 
away and leave the husk altogether. 

She did not speak about his health again that evening, 
seeing he did not wish it, but talked of other things, answer- 
ing his questions, and giving him any little news she could 
think of. 

“ Maud is in Town now,” she said, “ at the flat. I told 
you they had one since Christmas, didn’t I? They are 
sometimes there and sometimes here.” 

“ I shouldn’t think Lassiter patronized it much,” Sam 
said. 


166 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ Not so much in the winter while he can hunt, but he’s 
there quite a good deal, though Maud, of course, more. 
They know people and go out, and to theatres, and so on, 
a lot.” 

“ And you,” Sam said, “ do you go? ” 

“ I was there for a little while when I first came home 
from Germany at Christmas, while my clothes were being 
got ; there hasn’t been any need for me to go since.” 

“ Don’t you want to go to theatres, and so on ? ” he asked. 

“ I dare say I should like some of it,” she said ; “ but I 
shouldn’t like it all. I don’t know the people Maud does, 
and I don’t suppose they would want to know me. I’m 
afraid I shouldn’t get on with them. I am rather stupid to 
begin with, and Maud makes me — I mean, I seem stupider 
than ever when she — sometimes. And, anyway, I shouldn’t 
like living in Town, or stopping there long; I shouldn’t like 
it even if I hadn’t got something to do here.” 

“ H’m,” said Sam, and inquired if Maud was in Town 
for long. “Now?” Violet asked. “No; she said she 
should be home on Saturday, anyway. She’ll come to- 
morrow, when she hears you have arrived. She’s hardly 
ever away for more than a week or ten days together. She 
usually comes back, if there is anything to come for — any- 
thing she has got to go to. She’s been here quite as much 
as she is in Town, I should think.” 

Sam nodded. In a fashion he had heard this before, or 
some of it. Violet’s letters had been long and frequent, 
and full of the details of everyday life and thought, which 
alone make letters a vital and real means of union with the 
absent. He knew a good deal about her, more, probably, 
than he would had he been in England and only seen her oc- 
casionally; but of Maud he had heard comparatively little. 
Violet, it is true, had come back to Grange Hall at Christ- 
mas, but since then he had received few letters. It was a 
two months’ post, infrequent at that, to the station where he 


VIOLET GROWN UP 


167 


then was ; that did not admit of many being received before 
he left, invalided, for the coast and a journey home by 
slow stages. And of those sent, some had gone astray dur- 
ing his illness, and the few received had told little of Maud, 
except some reference to her having gone here or come back 
from there. 

“ So she’s away a good deal ? ” he said. 

“ Not really a great deal,” Violet said, and added some- 
thing to the effect that there was no reason why she should 
not, since she herself was home and able to be here. 

“ Be here for what?” Sam asked. “ To see the house 
does not run away? It always was a contingency weigh- 
ing on Maud. No, V. J. — no, that won’t do. You are, 
doubtless, immensely useful; but if you have persuaded 
yourself that your being here enables Maud to be away, or 
that your going would entail her stopping, you’re more be- 
wildered by her than I should have expected.” 

“ Anyhow, I can’t go,” Violet said. “There’s Jack; I 
teach him.” 

Her eyes lighted as she spoke of the boy, and Sam, seeing 
it, asked : “ Have you adopted Jack? ” 

She laughed. “ I dare say you’d say so,” she said ; “ but 
when you see him you won’t wonder.” 

“ I don’t wonder now,” he said, the lines on his face deep. 

She did not notice, nor notice the gravity of his expres- 
sion ; she went on to speak of the child. 

“ He’s nearly eight,” she said, “ but he’s rather a baby 
still; younger than I was at that age, I think. They talk 
of sending him to school soon, but it will be dreadfully hard 
for him if they do, and I am sure I could teach him for a 
good while yet. If you get the chance, you might talk to 
them about it.” 

“ I will,” Sam said ; then asked : “ Why do you want to 
teach him ? Besides, I mean, for his good ? ” 

“ Why ? Because I love him ; he is so dear. I shall 


168 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


miss him dreadfully when he goes to school, as, of course, 
he will by-and-by.” 

Sam thought of Cuddy’s idea of his daughter’s future; 
his childlike fancy, in which he himself had not been with- 
out some participation, that, under Maud’s care, a series of 
eligible young men would be submitted for Violet’s in- 
spection and amusement, until, about the age of eighteen, 
she selected the one to her taste for her husband. She was 
past that age now, unpaid governess to Maud’s little boy — 
alone, in fact, for a good deal of her time; alone in heart 
for all of it. Not that one could exactly blame Maud. 
The plan was as childish as any even of Cuddy’s making, 
as improbable of fulfilment. Maud had not heard of it, nor 
yet wittingly arranged things as they were ; they had merely 
happened. But that night Sam felt a species of ache for 
Violet, and for Cuddy and his foolish planning ; for himself, 
too, and for Maud; for small things awry which might be 
right and were not, could not be. It was a weary world, 
and he felt tired and old. Yet for one thing he was not 
sorry, even though it was traitorous to Cuddy and his 
scheme; he was in his heart sorry that Maud had not fitted 
Violet with a husband from among her friends. To tell 
the truth, the thought of any man in that relation to the 
new-met Violet turned him rather sick; in his tolerant ac- 
quaintance with his own sex, he had not come across one 
he felt fit. 

The next morning Violet telegraphed the news of Sam’s 
arrival to Maud. 

About midday a reply was received, a lengthy one, which, 
regardless of cost, conveyed greeting to Sam and informa- 
tion that Maud and her husband were going to spend the 
week-end up the river. Sam might have that amount of 
time to talk to Violet undisturbed ; afterwards Maud should 
demand a share of his company. That was the gist of the 
lengthy telegram which Sam handed to Violet when she 


VIOLET GROWN UP 


169 


came out on the terrace, where he had spent an idle morn- 
ing while she gave Jack lessons. 

She read it through, frowning a little. To her thinking 
it unwittingly offered Sam a slight, and probably disap- 
pointed him, too. 

“ I’m sorry ” she said. 

“ I’m not,” Sam answered. 

“ Not? ” She looked up, still trying for his sake to con- 
ceal the fact that she herself was glad. 

“ No,” he said, “ I’m glad she’s not coming yet. You 
and I have got a good lot to talk about — about a million 
things, I think ; and Maud — you may have noticed that con- 
secutive conversation, more especially on subjects which 
do not concern her, does not flourish in her society. Also 
— well, we can do without her a bit.” 

“ I was afraid you might mind,” Violet said with relief. 
“ Of course, she doesn’t mean ” 

Sam laughed. “ I’ve known Maud twenty years,” he 
said, “ and once in them I made the mistake of thinking 
she did mean something — the mistake of taking her seri- 
ously, in fact. I was very young then ; I am not now ; I am 
almost thirty-seven, and have had, as I say, the privilege of 
knowing Maud twenty years. I know that she means no 
despite to an old friendship or to me by not coming here to 
entertain me, just as she means no particular encourage- 
ment to the man at whose request she (and Ted) have gone 
up the river ; or as she would mean neither desperate affec- 
tion nor desperate anxiety did she cancel all engagements 
on receipt of the news of my arrival, and motor down here 
at a pace exceeding the most lenient interpretation of the 
speed limit. Whichever she did, it would mean the same 
thing, simply that it occurred to her at the time to want to 
do it. And forthwith she did it, and, shortly after, did 
something else and forgot all about it, and enjoyed herself 
thoroughly.” 


170 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ Yes,” Violet said rather doubtfully. “ Anyway, I am 
sure she did not mean to hurt you.” 

“ She didn’t,” Sam assured her. “ The people who don’t 
mean anything don’t matter anything either, when once one 
has got the hang of them.” 

Again Violet said “ Yes ” rather doubtfully. She did not 
think many people thus regarded Maud. 

“ Very likely not,” Sam said. “ I didn’t myself once 
upon a time; but, I learnt. Yes” — in answer to a quick 
glance — “ it hurt ; there’s no ‘ reading without tears ’ in 
that school. But the tears of the young are not an eternal 
affair. I didn’t break my neck over the business, nor my 
heart either.” 

“ Did you — did you care very much ? ” Violet asked shyly , 
she felt she ought not ask, but she wanted the answer 
much. 

“ I thought I did,” Sam said ; “ or perhaps I should say, 
I cared much (according to the lights and abilities of my 
years) for what I thought was Maud. Something got a 
nasty jar when that came to pieces ; though whether it was 
heart or mind, affections or ideals, which took the most 
shock, I cannot undertake to say at this distance of time. 
But something got it ; though neither it nor * all the king’s 
horses and all the king’s men ’ could put the illusion to- 
gether again. Like Humpty Dumpty, there was an end of 
that, and I lived happy ever afterwards. I say, I seem to 
be relating my love-affair in quite avuncular fashion ! ” 

“ Do you mind ? ” 

‘‘Relating my love-affairs to you? Not in the least.” 

She did not mean that. “ I meant ” — she hesitated — “ I 
don’t think I ought to ask.” 

“ Mind that I didn’t marry Maud ? ” he inquired. “ I 
should mind very much if I had. It would be a painful 
thing if the prayers of our youth — some folk’s youth — had 
all been granted on the asking. I don’t wonder the depart- 


VIOLET GROWN UP 


171 


ment for granting the wishes of insufficient knowledge is in 
charge of genii in the East. A cynical genie would get a 
good deal of satisfaction out of some of the grantings.” 

Jack interrupted here, running out on to the terrace with 
a ball in his hand, and asking that Violet should play with 
him. 

He was a handsome boy, tall for his age, quite healthy, 
though backward and nervous. Sam was inclined to agree 
with Violet that he was not fit to leave home yet, even for 
the most select preparatory school. He observed the two 
together that day, and came to the conlusion that, whatever 
the present arrangement might be for Violet, it was the best 
one possible for the boy. 

“ Jane,” he said, when they were at tea under the cedar, 
“ where did you learn to keep infant-school ? ” 

“ I trained for a kindergarten teacher while I was in 
Germany,” Violet answered ; “ I told you.” 

She had, but he did not think the training, excellent as it 
no doubt was, was solely responsible. A teacher, older by 
far than any excellent German, had taught her how to deal 
with this child, as it had taught her years ago how to deal 
with that bigger child, her father. 

“ Blessed,” said Sam piously — “ blessed be Nature — that 
one whose other name is Love! Pardon, Jane, you were 
saying something ? I ? — oh, I was thinking that to look 
after children seems a rather difficult thing to teach in 
school.” 

“ But it wasn’t school,” Violet said — “ at least, not ex- 
actly. We studied things that we preferred, or were wanted 
to, by our people. Most of the girls studied music, but I 
was no good at that. I’ve told you all this before, I 
know.” 

“ You have,” Sam agreed — “ some of it when you prac- 
tised in the old days.” 

She laughed. “ I did make horrible noises, didn’t I ? It 


m CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


was Aunt Mary who thought I ought to learn then — she 
couldn’t have had much ear herself. I think Maud thought 
I would do something with it when I went to Germany, but 
she had never heard me try to play. She was very good 
when I wrote and asked if I might give it up and learn 
kindergarten teaching instead, though I’m afraid I did not 
tell her why I wanted to do it.” 

She had told Sam. He had the letter still; he had the 
bad habit of keeping letters — some. This one, in which she 
had set out her ideas for a possible future, he had kept, 
finding it half-comic, half -pathetic, in its mixture of busi- 
ness-like seriousness and girlish ignorance. 

“You didn’t tell Maud?” he said. “Perhaps that was 
as well; more especially as it has turned out there wasn’t 
any need.” 

“ You mean as I haven’t got to earn my living? ” she said ; 
then asked : “ Can one live on one hundred and fifty 

pounds a year? That is what I have of my own. Maud 
says it would not buy clothes, and of course it would not buy 
hers; but I should not want anything like she has. I be- 
lieve I could live on it. You see, I was used to doing with 
a little money at Countershell.” 

Sam agreed, but added : “ I don’t think you will have the 

opportunity of trying.” 

“You don’t think Maud will let me? Or let me be a 
teacher? I’m afraid not, either. I haven’t said anything 
much to her about teaching, certainly, but she didn’t seem 
to at all understand what I did say. I might as well have 
been talking about being a shoe-black or a flower-girl. It is 
difficult to talk to her about some things.” 

“ Impossible,” Sam said ; “ give it up.” 

It was sound advice, and Violet’s own experience told her 
so. She did not answer for a little, sitting silent. When 
she spoke again it was to put a question which lay deep in 
her mind. 


VIOLET GROWN UP 


173 


“ How long do you think father meant me to stay with 
Maud? I must stay as long as he meant, if she will 
have me. And she will — she’s awfully kind. You don’t 
think I mean she isn’t, do you? She’s very kind and 
generous, and all you said when you were last home, 
only ” 

She broke off, but Sam was able to fill the gap uncom- 
fortably well. 

“ Do you think he meant me to stay after I am grown 
up?” she asked in a low voice — “after Tack has gone to 
school ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” Sam said. He did not know what else 
to say. For a moment there was a silence, during which he 
avoided her eyes. 

“ Look here, Jane,” he said at length, “ there’s no par- 
ticular use in speculating what people meant by what they 
didn’t say, and what’s to be done when and if something 
happens that’s not yet arrived. For the present you’re here 
and Jack’s here; he wants a teacher, and you can teach. 
He isn’t likely to go to school for six months, perhaps a 
year. It’s no good deciding what’s to happen when he does 
go, especially in a household like this, where anything may 
happen any time.” 

“ I know,” Violet said ; “ of course, I know that really. 
Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry I grumbled; I didn’t mean to. I 
have nothing to grumble about. You know that, don’t you 
— you do understand ? It’s such a comfort you understand. 
If only you were here all the time and hadn’t to go back to 
Africa ! ” 

“If it is any satisfaction to you,” Sam said, “ know that 
I am not going back to Africa.” 

“You’re not going back?” Her face lighted with joy. 
“You’re going to stay in England?” 

“ I am not going back. I am going to stay in England, 
if not permanently, certainly for some time. I may pos- 


174 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


sibly go to New Zealand after a while, but not yet ; anyhow, 
I shan’t go back to Africa.” 

“If you are in England it doesn’t matter,” Violet began, 
her eyes still alight ; then a sudden thought struck her. 

“Why are you not going back to Africa?” she asked. 
“ Is it because you are not well enough — you will never be 
well enough again ? ” 

“ Not well enough in Africa,” he said — “ at least, so the 
men of medicine are pleased to think ; well enough anywhere 
else.” 

“ Samuel ! ” She looked at him wide-eyed. 

“ Jane ! ” he retorted. “ There’s poetry in those two 
names. Though it might take genius to distil it, I shall 
try one day. Jane, close your eyes, or turn your head; I 
have had to speak to you before about staring at me in a 
way that reminds me of my lost beauty. I decline entirely 
to be pitied because I’ve returned, even though I am labelled 
* returned empty.’ A misnomer, I assure you, since I still 
have a few promising young families of fever bacteria, 
fated, poor mites, to find an early death in this more 
rigorous clime.” 

Violet turned her head as ordered. “ Oh,” she said in a 
low voice, “ I never thought about that ! I never thought 
about you when I was so glad ! ” 

“ Don’t think about me now since it seems you find the 
subject unflatteringly unpleasant,” Sam advised. “ Think 
about something else — Countershell, for instance. Having 
purchased a house, I want to view it; let us consider how 
and when we can go. What’s against Monday ? ” 

There was nothing against Monday. Jack was invited to 
go with his nurse to a birthday picnic that day. Maud 
was not likely to be home, her week-ends, Sam said from 
previous experience, always stretched to Tuesday. There 
was no reason why they should not go. The prospect of 
doing so was so exquisite as to be almost painful to Violet. 


VIOLET GROWN UP 


175 


Sam did not say what it was to him. They talked it over 
in all its details, so as to have the full enjoyment before- 
hand as well as later. 

Sam looked up the train, and discovered it was possible 
to be at the house by two o’clock if one started early, mo- 
tored to Southfleet, the big junction fifteen miles away, and 
caught the right connections at the right changing-places. 

“ We will get some provender in Denham,” he said — 
“ Bath buns among it — and drive forth to Countershell, 
like Mistress Gilpin, in a hired shay. We will spend the 
afternoon and evening at Countershell. Jane” — his voice 
dropped a little and his eyes narrowed — “ the gods may 
have used us a little roughly, but they have not entirely for- 
gotten to be good to us.” 

“ No,” she answered, but perhaps she did not quite under- 
stand. 

“ I’m glad you’re letting me come with you,” she said ; 
“ it is good of you to let me come.” 

He did not answer that, and she fell to making arrange- 
ments. “ Can we stop the night there, do you think ? ” she 
asked. “ We can’t possibly get back here the same day ; 
but there’s no one in the house now, so I suppose we 
couldn’t stay there ? ” 

“ I’m afraid not,” Sam said; “ we shall have to get back 
to Denham and quarter you on somebody. How about the 
Burbidges? ” 

“ No,” she said quickly. 

“ What’s the matter with them ? I thought you liked 
those girls ? ” 

“ I do — at least, I did. I haven’t seen them since I’ve 
been back from Germany. I haven’t seen any of the family 
except Mr. Burbidge ; he has been here pretty often.” 

“ Is that a reason why you shouldn’t go to his house 
now ? ” Sam inquired. 

“ I suppose it isn’t really,” she admitted, “ but — I wish he 


176 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


didn’t come here so often! Of course there’s no reason 
why he shouldn’t, nor why he shouldn’t see Maud in Town, 
nor why he shouldn’t give her things. He gets her lots of 
things. He goes about a great deal on business, and he’s 
always getting her things. There’s no reason why he 
shouldn’t. He’s very rich, and he’s sure to give Mrs. Bur- 
bidge all she wants — only, somehow, it doesn’t feel as if it 
were quite fair. I don’t exactly know who to. But Mrs. 
Burbidge is much older than Maud and not nearly so good- 

looking, and the girls It must be horrid to have your 

father making himself look silly ; he really does make him- 
self look very silly sometimes. I don’t know, of course, 
whether they know and mind. I am sure Maud doesn’t; 
she doesn’t mean any harm, only ” 

“ I understand,” Sam said. “We won’t bother with the 
Burbidges on Monday. Let’s try old Tyler. He’s a decent 
old chap, and, though a crusted bachelor, will probably put 
‘you up with joy, seeing you are a Yarborough, and me with 
modified joy as the present owner of Countershell. I 
should have to call on him anyhow, in the way of business.” 

Violet approved this plan ; she wanted to see the lawyer. 
“ I haven’t been able to go and see him since I have been 
home,” she said. “ I wanted to ; I want to thank him for 
taking so much care of Punch, and for having him buried 
at Countershell. You didn’t mind his being buried at 
Countershell, did you? Mr. Tyler said he had written to 
tell you about it in the autumn, when he wrote to me to say 
Punch was dead.” 

“ No, I didn’t mind,” Sam said. He privately held that 
he owed the old lawyer a debt for the “ act of trespass,” as 
it had been punctiliously described, which no fee could pay. 

“ I wish Harrison was buried there too,” he said. 

“ He would not have minded so much,” Violet answered ; 
“though it would have been nice to have them together. 
He was quite happy here, even while I was away. He died 


VIOLET GROWN UP 


177 


soon after I came back. They both had happy lives, I 
think, he and Punch. It’s something to think about when 
they are dead.” It was all the comfort she had for the loss 
of the two companions who had been so dear to her. Sam 
knew it must be but cold comfort at times, but he did not 
say so. 

“ On Monday we will go and look for Punch’s grave,” he 
said. “ It’s right there should be some graves in the ex- 
pedition, I suppose — chequers of light and shade. It’s a 
chequered affair this concern we call life. Maybe the bet- 
ter for being chequered ; we might appreciate it less if there 
was no sharp tang in it. At all events, we will appreciate 
Monday.” 

And they did, spending a day so good as to stand out long 
in memory — one of those days of sweetness not untouched 
with sadness, of impossible hope for the future as well as 
past recollections and present happiness, which befall rarely, 
and, as rare things, are secretly stored and prized. 


CHAPTER X 
GRAHAM BURBIDGE 

O N Tuesday Sam had an attack of fever. Whether 
because the going to Countershell was too much for 
him in his present state of health, or merely because he was 
due to have an attack, one cannot say ; he had it. He woke 
feeling ill on Tuesday morning; but, though pressed by Mr. 
Tyler to remain where he was, declined, and went back to 
Grange Hall with Violet. She had not liked to arrange for 
the motor to meet them at Southfleet, in case Maud or Las- 
siter should want it to meet one of them elsewhere; so the 
return journey took the greater part of the day. The house 
was not reached until nearly four o’clock, when Sam re- 
tired to bed. 

Violet, who had never seen anyone with an attack of fever, 
was very anxious at first, though she did her best to conceal 
the fact, and accepted Sam’s assurance that it would not last 
long. 

“ I’ll be better to-morrow,” he said, between shivering ; 
“ the devil will be gone out by then. I may be ‘ as one dead ’ 
for a little ; but I shall be here, and he will be gone. Prayer 
and fasting does the trick, otherwise blankets and quinine 
in solitude.” 

Violet said “ Yes,” and saw he had what he wanted with- 
out protest or unasked advice. She did what was required 
in the quiet, efficient manner which was to be expected of 
her, not omitting to respect his wish to be, so far as possible, 
alone. 

He had a bad night, troubled by other things besides fever. 
Violet’s present situation haunted him, the more, perhaps, be- 

178 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE 


179 


cause so little had been said, so much surmised. One solu- 
tion of it, one remedy, occurred to him. It seemed an in- 
spiration when it occurred in the height of fever; it seemed 
entirely desirable when it recurred in the weakness between 
whiles. It recurred and recurred again, like a temptation of 
the devil; and he cherished it, as such things can be cher- 
ished during bad nights. 

By the next day he was a good deal better, though at first 
weak. 

“ A well-bleached ape of sixty,” was his comment on his 
own appearance when, somewhere about nine o’clock, he 
Contemplated it in the glass. “ A gallant bridegroom ! ” 

He went back to bed again, and, in the daylight of a sunny 
June morning, banished the visions of the night — visions 
born of fever and of the day at Countershell, where he and 
Violet had recaptured something of the spirit of the old 
times, softened with wistfulness, deepened with the wider 
knowledge that living and suffering gives. He banished 
them, ashamed that even in fever he had entertained them. 
“ Thirty-seven, and a poor man at that, and she not yet nine- 
teen ! Believing in you, S. Bailey, so that in her faith and 
her ignorance she’d do it if you asked her ! God ! To ask 
a girl like that to marry one ! ” 

He took some more quinine, and decided to leave Grange 
Hall that afternoon. 

He came downstairs at lunch-time, so far recovered that 
Violet was as much surprised by the quick passing as the 
quick coming of the attack. But though he was better he 
was by no means well, and she protested in dismay when he 
announced his intention of going back to London. 

“ You cannot ! ” she said. “ You’ll be ill again if you do. 
You must wait. I’m sure Maud would say you must.” 

Maud had not come home on Tuesday after all. She had 
telegraphed to say Lassiter had to go North on business, and 
she should stay where she was till Wednesday afternoon. 


180 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


Violet repeated this to Sam, and pointed out that he would 
miss Maud, as well as endanger his own health by leaving. 

Neither consideration appeared to carry much weight. 
“ Tell Maud I’ll come and see her later on if she’ll ask me,” 
he said. “ I’ve got an appointment with a man to-night, 
which I ought to keep. Oh, yes, I can keep it all right. I 
shall ring him up and tell him to come and see me instead 
of going to him, for fear the night air would endanger my 
constitution. See how careful I am getting in my old age. 
Besides, I have some dozen other reasons for going.” 

He did not say what they were, and she did not ask, which 
was perhaps as well, since he might have found it difficult to 
express them suitably to her. Seeing that he was bent on 
going she said no more, and he left in good time in the after- 
noon. 

He spent the remainder of the week in having supple- 
mentary attacks of fever and considering his own affairs. 
These required some consideration. They and his prospects 
for the future were enough to very fully occupy attention. 
They succeeded in occupying him even during the fever pe- 
riods through that week. Exactly how he stood was set 
forth in an interview he had with Graham Burbidge a little 
later. 

Years ago, when he had met Graham Burbidge at Coun- 
tershell, Burbidge had said : “ Let me know if you ever 

leave Government service.” Sam had only seen him once 
since then, when he had spoken of the Central African Gold 
Syndicate, in which he was interested, and in which Sam had, 
on the strength of his words, invested what he could. That 
was two years and more ago, and so far the investment had 
not paid — indeed, showed small sign of doing so, though the 
Syndicate had been at work some time, as Sam knew. He 
knew a certain amount about it and its doings, and the great 
and unexpected difficulties it had had to deal with. He 
himself had been applied to from time to time to give help 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE 


181 


or advice on subjects connected with details, governmental, 
natural, and native — especially native. Burbidge, who never 
forgot the existence of a man who might either help or hin- 
der any of his schemes, had kept in touch with him suffi- 
ciently for that purpose. But it was less because of this 
than because he believed in Burbidge that Sam wrote to him 
now, reminding him of the words spoken long ago. 

It was possible, of course, that Burbidge would decline to 
see him. He was not a philanthropist, or one to follow any- 
thing to no advantage; but, on the other hand, he was one 
who could foresee possible advantage very far ahead and 
in apparently unlikely places. He, further, had the quality 
— comparatively rare in successful men — of not dismissing 
from consideration those who had served him, even when 
they appeared likely to be of little further use. If a connec- 
tion could be maintained at little cost, a certain sense of jus- 
tice as well as wisdom inclined him to it. He invited Sam 
to dine with him at eight o’clock the next evening, at a small 
restaurant in Soho, which was just beginning to come into 
fashion for the perfection of its cooking and the uncon- 
ventionality of its (original) clientele. 

Sam was punctual to the appointment ; so was Burbidge. 
They went in together; meeting, just inside, two people who 
appeared to be about to leave. 

Burbidge glanced at them — the momentary apprising 
glance which he bestowed even on beautiful objects. The 
woman was beautiful. The man also had an appearance to 
recommend him to attention — handsome and well-bred, with 
eyes, no doubt normally cold, but ardent now. His compan- 
ion justified the ardour. She was a big woman, finely de- 
veloped, and possessing a grace of movement seldom 
achieved by the thin ; beautiful, and with a vitality more ar- 
resting even than her beauty. She was dressed in a lustre- 
less gown, which appeared to leave off a little above the 
waist, though her splendid shoulders were sufficiently veiled 


182 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


for decorum and to throw into relief an ornament of green 
enamel and jewels which hung from her neck. 

That was what Graham Burbidge saw. Sam saw Maud 
and Ingram, the man she had brought to Countershell on 
Violet’s sixteenth birthday. 

“ Sam ! ” Maud cried. “ You here ! How extraordinary ! 
Isn’t it extraordinary ? ” She turned to Ingram with the in- 
terest of a child in a surprising circumstance. 

Ingram agreed. “ I did not know you were in England,” 
he said to Sam, rather coolly, and turning to take change 
from the waiter as he spoke. 

“ Of course he’s in England ! ” Maud cried. “ Been to 
Grange Hall while I was week-ending with the Tillotsons, 
and fled away at the sound of my return on plea of serious 
illness. Not much illness about him now! Sam, you’re 
caught ! ” 

Sam said that illness was not his reason for leaving, but 
Maud hardly listened. 

“We won’t inquire,” she said reassuringly with a gay 
glance which included Burbidge. “ It’s all right ; we won’t 
inquire into your reasons. Let me know when she’s left 
Town and you are inclined to look us up in rustic solitude. 
Time?” she asked Ingram, becoming aware that he was 
awaiting her move. “ We’re going to the play,” she ex- 
plained, “ and I want to see the first act if possible — we shan’t 
be above ten minutes late.” 

She turned towards the door. “ Hope you’ll enjoy your 
dinner,” she said, “ the consomme is a poem, just one little 
poem ! ” 

She went out, leaving for a moment an almost palpable 
sense of emptiness. 

Graham Burbidge adjusted his eyeglass. “ Who is the 
man ? ” he asked. He was the only person present who had 
divided his attention between the two. 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE 


183 


“ That man ? ” Sam said. “ Ingram ; he’s in the Colonial 
Office — clever chap.” 

Burbidge inquired if he was a friend of Sam’s. “ Your 
post in Africa was under the Colonial Office, was it not?” 
he said. 

It was, but that did not make Ingram a friend of Sam’s. 
“ I haven’t come across him a great deal,” he said, “ and what 
little I have has not been to my advantage. I started in by 
rubbing him the wrong way — that was before he had any- 
thing to do with my department — not that that would have 
made any difference. I rather fancy I should still have done 
it. And anyway, whatever I did or didn’t, it would not have 
effected his proceedings ; he isn’t the kind to shut his eyes to 
please the General’s wife or anybody else’s wife either, or 
help a man down or up because he happened to tread on his 
corns or otherwise.” 

“ Incorruptible and beyond price ? ” Burbidge suggested. 

“ I’d be sorry for the man who offered him a price ! ” Sam 
said. 

“ So should I — if he were a fool,” Burbidge answered ; 
then inquired how Sam had contrived to win disfavour. 

“ I was fooling,” he answered, “ and Ingram has a par- 
ticular objection to it, and to making an ass of himself.” 

“ That is regrettable in his present circumstances,” Bur- 
bidge observed dryly ; then remarked : “ He has good taste 

in enamels. The pendant was fine work.” 

Sam looked up, but an interruption by the waiter pre- 
vented him from speaking ; and, on second thoughts, he had 
nothing to say. The ornament on Maud’s neck did suggest 
Ingram’s fastidious taste, even to him. And, after all, why 
not ? Why should not he give it to her, as Sam himself, and 
others, too, had given her things which they — some of them 
at least — could afford a good deal less than Ingram could the 
jewel ? There was no reason why he should not give it, and 


184 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


no reason why Burbidge should not comment on it, though 
Sam rather wished he had not. 

“ The lady ? ” Burbidge asked later. “ Who is she ? ” 

“ Lady Lassiter,” Sam answered, “ wife of Lassiter, the 
brewer; at feast his people were brewers. He’s out of it 
himself now, I think.” 

Burbidge was giving his attention to the wine list. 
“Yes?” he said; afterwards he remarked casually: “He 
must be an amiable man.” 

“ Why ? ” Sam asked sharply. 

“ My dear Bailey,” Burbidge protested, “ you do not, I 
hope, think I am insinuating anything against Lady Lassiter ? 
I assure you I had no such thought. On the contrary, I 
am as convinced as you are that she is a paragon of virtue. 
I am quite sure that the idea of a quid pro quo for any man 
has never yet entered into her scheme of joy. It does not 
into the scheme of some of the most charming and expen- 
sive ladies.” 

“ Lady Lassiter is an old and great friend of mine,” Sam 
said stiffly. “ In fact, at one time I hoped to marry her.” 

Burbidge apologized for anything he had said which might 
displease ; then remarked : “ That must have been a good 

while ago.” 

“ That I had hopes of marrying her ? ” Sam said. “ It 
was ; but she’s still my friend, and always will be.” 

Burbidge agreed affably, and inquired about Grange Hall. 
“ She mentioned the name,” he said. “ I have heard it be- 
fore, I think ? ” 

Sam guessed that he had heard it in connection with his 
brother; and also guessed that that brother had avoided 
any mention of Maud herself to the astute elder. For a mo- 
ment he hesitated; then the recollection of Violet and her 
troubled face when she spoke of George Burbidge and his 
visits overruled him. 

“ I dare say your brother from Denham has mentioned 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE 


185 


Grange Hall,” he said; “it’s where Lady Lassiter usually 
lives. He’s been there a good many times. If you want my 
opinion, I should say it were just as well if he didn’t go there 
too much. It’d be annoying for Lady Lassiter if he — if he 
does.” 

“ Very,” Burbidge agreed. “ Also for me, as he is asso- 
ciated with me in several things ; and a man who is engaged 
in making that kind of fool of himself is liable to make sev- 
eral other kinds at the same time.” 

He did not indicate whether his brother had already com- 
mitted this unforgivable sin, and whether he regarded Sam’s 
words as an explanation of it or merely as a warning. But a 
little later, in speaking of Canada as a field for financial en- 
terprise, he said : “ I am a good deal interested in some Cana- 
dian mines — my brother and I are interested together. One 
of us will have to go out this summer to look after things. 
It is quite impossible for me to get away for the length of 
time necessary, it may be a matter of several months. I am 
afraid he will have to go.” 

Sam nodded, feeling that no comment was called for, and 
Burbidge inquired if he had any acquaintance with Canada. 

" No ? That’s a pity ; there’s room for a man there — 
though I doubt if you could stand the climate and the rigor- 
ous life even if you were free to go.” 

“ I’m not free to go,” Sam said ; “ at least, I want to stop 
in England if it’s anyhow possible. Africa ? ” — as Burbidge 
inquired about it. “ Yes, that is out of the question ; not be- 
cause I won’t but because I can’t go back.” 

Burbidge, who was aware of the condition under which 
he had come home, made some politely sympathetic remarks. 
“ Invalided out of the service on a small pension at forty,” 
he said — “ rough luck.” 

“ Fortune of war — or peace,” Sam replied. “ And might 
I point out that I’m not forty, and there is no pen- 
sion.” 


186 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ No pension? ” 

“ Not in that service. It’s not exactly the best thing go- 
ing — no pension, small salary, no great prospects — the top 
posts are mostly filled from outside and they’re no very great 
catch; and more risks than a careful insurance office will 
take at a reasonable premium — noisome beasts, pestilence, 
and several other Biblical plagues, not to mention fever. 
Still, it has its points, and it is almost the only gift service 
left ; also, personally, I liked the work and the life, and stood 
the climate well up till lately, and it’s thirteen years since I 
first went out.” 

“ Thirteen years ! ” Burbidge said, regarding him with a 
flicker of interest. Connection with the Central African 
Syndicate had brought him some knowledge of the nature of 
the work and the men who administered the remote places 
of the Empire. It raised a faint interest in him, both some 
admiration and some contempt. “ Thirteen of the best years 
of life,” he said meditatively, “ and, as it has proved, the best 
of your strength too — and nothing to show for it. One can- 
not say that the nation is an over-generous employer — to 
some of its employees.” 

“ Luck,” Sam said philosophically. “ Some fellows hold 
out till they are fifty or more, and then want to go back. 
Some who are invalided home get home jobs, if there are 
any going.” 

“ Will you?” 

“ I haven’t enough influence — haven’t any, in fact. Be- 
sides, I got into hot water with most of my superiors when 
I was out. I told you I was rather given to fooling in my 
young days. I used to write poetry and pamphlets and 
things. It’s a first-class country for that sort of thing; 
no end of people there have ‘ history.’ Besides, there’s 
an awful lot that wants amending; you can tell your- 
self you’ve got reform in your eye when you’re writing a 
giddy tract about Big Man’s wife’s nephew or some other 


GRAHAM BURBRIDGE 


187 


jest. When I was younger I was always getting myself into 
trouble that way, or else with just playing the fool for play- 
ing’s sake.” 

“ And that militates against you getting anything now ? ” 

“ Prevents it. Not that there was any chance of it any- 
how. If there had been, I think the Gold Syndicate business 
would have knocked it on the head.” 

“ Why ? You did nothing contrary to regulations to oblige 
us — nothing but what was advantageous rather than other- 
wise both to the Government and the native population.” 

“ I know,” Sam said, and did not add, as was true, that 
otherwise he would not have done it. “ That doesn’t ex- 
actly matter,” he explained ; “ most things can be interpreted 
two ways, you know. There are some biggish people who 
didn’t approve my interpretation of my powers; some of 
them put their own interpretation on my doings in their re- 
ports. If it had happened to be known I had shares in the 
Syndicate I believe they’d have tried to kick me out of the 
service ; though the fact had nothing to do with anything I 
did, and the blessed thing hasn’t paid me a penny.” 

“ It will pay you soon,” Burbidge told him, and inquired 
his opinion of the man now stationed in the remote district 
where lay the scene of the Syndicate’s operations. A very 
lonely and totally uncivilized district, mostly virgin land, 
where Sam himself had been for some year-and-a-half a 
while back, and for which he had affection and understand- 
ing. Facts which had been useful to Topham, his immediate 
successor — a nervous and conscientious weakling, born to 
adorn the office of a civilized centre and most ill at ease in 
savagedom, separated by enormous stretches of forest from 
central authority. The Central African Syndicate had also 
found Sam’s knowledge and affection useful, and encouraged 
Mr. Topham to draw largely on them and on Sam’s advice ; 
indeed, they saw to it that Sam, unofficially, had a large 
share in administering his favourite district by private letter 


188 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


if not in person — that is, until he fell ill of the pestilentious 
climate of the place to which he had been sent. Soon after 
that happened Topham fell ill too — of anxiety quite as much 
as fever — and was transferred to a more civilized part, his 
place being filled by one, Fabrian. It was of Fabrian Bur- 
bidge asked Sam now. “ What’s your opinion of him? ” he 
said. 

“ He’ll hold out,” Sam answered. “ One thing, he won’t 
be afraid to go and live in the hut I built on the high land 
above the swamps. That silly ass Topham would stop down 
on the water-level because the tumble-down shanty, called an 
official residence, was there, and he felt nearer civilization 
in it. He’s the kind of ass that if he saw a pillar-box in the 
Sahara wouldn’t think he had delirium tremens, or that some 
Arab had gone in for an unusual form of loot, but rather — 
‘ here is civilization, let us camp by it ! ’ Fabrian’s not like 
that ; he has sense ; also he’s tough. He’s not had a trace of 
fever so far, I heard from him last night.” 

The physical condition of Fabrian interested Burbidge less 
than his other qualifications for the remote post he occupied. 
“ From what I hear he seems able to handle the natives,” he 
said. 

Sam agreed. “ He understands them,” he said. “ I 
sometimes knew what Brother Black would do and, now and 
again, when he’d do it ; but I believe Fabrian knows why he 
does, and that’s a deal more. He’s got the hang of the black 
mind wonderfully. One thing, he was born in Africa; not 
Central, but Rhodesia. He’s a queer chap, but he’ll be 
helpful to the Syndicate if they don’t fall out with him.” 

Burbidge asked why they should. 

“ I don’t know,” Sam answered ; “ some fellows have done 
it. He isn’t very popular in the service. I don’t know why 
exactly. I have come across him a certain amount myself, 
and I didn’t find anything much amiss with him, but he’s not 
popular I know.” 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE 


189 


Burbidge forebore to suggest that characteristics which 
might make a man unpopular in the service need not make 
him unacceptable to men connected with a gold enterprise. 
He was satisfied that Sam thought well of this man’s abilities 
and was in occasional communication with him. The subject 
dropped, and he asked casually what Sam himself thought 
of doing now. 

It was precisely because Sam did not know that he had 
written to Burbidge, reminding him of the words spoken at 
Countershell long ago. “ Not that I’m likely to be any use 
to you,” he said now. “ I don’t imagine it ; still, I thought 
I’d remind you ; you might have some advice to spare.” 

“ Advice is a cheap commodity,” Burbidge answered, 
" though not one in which I am in the habit of dealing largely. 
With regard to your usefulness to me — frankly, I fear you 
have none unless you can go to Africa, and that, I under- 
stand, is out of the question.” 

“ Out of the question for several years anyhow,” Sam 
said, “ and only possible for short periods of time if ever at 
all again.” 

“ Unfortunate,” Burbidge said. 

His tone did not suggest much interest. Sam felt the sub- 
ject had not much for him. It was pursued a little further, 
but without much result; and, remembering that some en- 
gagement for the evening had been mentioned in the invita- 
tion to dine, Sam supposed he ought to take his leave. 

However, as he was about to do so Burbidge stopped him. 
“ It is true,” he said, “ that, so far as I can see, you are 
hardly likely to be of use to me, though of course it is pos- 
sible I am mistaken. But if you care to have my advice on 
your affairs, it is at your service. What are your ideas? — 
You have none? Your present position then — your connec- 
tions ? ” 

Sam’s connections were few, and his immediate relatives 
limited to a sister, married to a man in the Indian Civil Serv- 


190 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


ice, and a brother, a doctor, formerly in Edinburgh, now 
holding a good medical appointment in New Zealand. 

“ I could go out to him,” he said. “ I might be able to 
pick up something through his influence, though I shouldn’t 
think I had a better chance there than here ; and, as I’ve said 
before, I don’t want to leave England — at all events not for 
a year or two.” 

Burbidge nodded, and inquired as to attainments and quali- 
fications. Sam could produce few. He had an intimate 
knowledge of Swahili, a working knowledge of a good many 
African dialects, some acquaintance with the ways of the 
black man and the greater mammals, some faculty for rhym- 
ing and figures, and the ability to deal quickly and, on the 
whole, adequately with such contingencies as a broken 
bridge, a damaged limb, a threatened famine, or a tribal dis- 
pute over obscure theft or unmentionable rite. Besides 
these he had nothing to offer but incorruptible honesty, 
much patience and more belief in his fellow man than is 
usual at his age. 

“ With regard to possessions,” he said, “ I haven’t much — 
pocket-money, or not much more, a house of no great pre- 
tensions, and the shares in the Gold Syndicate, which do not 
at present appear to be a marketable commodity.” 

“ They will be shortly,” Burbidge said ; “ though my advice 
is hold on even then, it will pay you better. The house? 
What is it? Is it family property? ” 

“ No, I bought it.” 

“ What for?” 

“ I wanted to. And I don’t want to sell it — in fact, I don’t 
mean to. One thing, I doubt rather if I could at all easily 
even if I did wish; it’s inconvenient, no particular size, in 
bad repair, and not situated in an attractive part of the coun- 
try. By the way, you’ve seen it — it’s Countershell.” 

“ Countershell ? ” Burbidge said. “ I thought my 
brother ” 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE 


191 


“ Your brother did not buy the house. That, with the gar- 
den, orchard, and near paddock, were cut off from the rest. 
He didn’t want them. I bought them. And I mean to stick 
to them, even if I’m driven to retiring to live in two rooms of 
the house, and growing cabbages for my support in the gar- 
den, orchard, and paddock.” 

“ Ah ! ” Burbidge said. He did not ask why. When he 
conceived a man’s motives to be of importance to himself, 
he usually found them out without the baldness of direct 
questions. When they had no such interest he did not con- 
cern himself with them at all. He did not now, but asked 
Sam a few other questions about his affairs, friends, and 
ideas ; listening attentively, but at the end not offering any 
very definite advice. It was not a situation on which it was 
easy to advise. 

However, when they parted, he said, “ I’ll have you in 
mind. If I hear or think of anything likely to be useful 
to you I’ll let you know. I’m afraid the chances are not 
great; still, one never knows. There should be a niche for 
you somewhere. You have some not invaluable qualities.” 

With that he shook his hand, and went to keep the de- 
layed appointment. And Sam went to his rooms to think 
over his position, which had, at least, gained in clearness 
from the talk with Graham Burbidge. 

Sam spent most of the next two days in thinking over the 
position and in making investigations in connection with it. 
He read a great many advertisements, minutely reviewed 
his limited stock of accomplishments, and took advice upon 
the handicap of his state of health, without any very en- 
couraging results. At the end of the two days he heard 
from Graham Burbidge. 

Burbidge rang him up on the telephone to ask if he had 
ever thought about poultry farming. 

“ I can’t say I have,” Sam answered, “ though that’s no 
reason why I shouldn’t.” 


192 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ It’s a subject one can’t get up, I believe,” Burbidge said. 
“ I understand it is possible to get instruction in the tech- 
nical part, though I should think technical instruction was 
less to the purpose than common sense.” 

“ I flatter myself I’ve got some of that commodity,” Sam 
said. “ Is it a particular instance you have in mind, or 
merely poultry farming in general ? ” 

“ I have one in mind,” came the answer rather doubt- 
fully, “but 'I hardly think it will fit you — not quite up to 
your standard, I’m afraid.” 

“ What is it ? ” Sam asked with alacrity. He could not 
himself think of anything which offered a small salary and 
occupation within his capacity which would be below his 
standard. He listened with attention to Burbidge’s ex- 
planation. 

“ I want someone to look after a smallish poultry farm 
which has been hopelessly mismanaged,” he said ; “ but I 
want a man who will do it without giving my brother the 
hump — let him think he’s running it himself.” 

“ Your brother?” 

“Yes — not the one you’ve met; another — Algernon, the 
eldest. He has been a schoolmaster most of his life, but 
when he retired he thought he’d like a poultry farm — Lord 
knows why! He has the mind of a bookish child and the 
business capacity of a hen; but he wanted it. Now he’s got 
it he has no more idea than a calf what to do with it, and 
is always in difficulties of some sort. He has been here 
this morning wasting no end of my time, and now he’s gone 
I’m no wiser as to what’s the matter, beyond that there’s a 
deficit somewhere — which, as I told him, was what I was 
prepared for. The thing’s a hobby, not a paying concern — 
its object to amuse him, not to make money.” 

“ I see,” Sam said, feeling that this was Graham Bur- 
bidge in a new light, one towards which he himself warmed. 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE 


193 


“Do you think the object’s not achieved?” he asked. 
“You want a man to look after things and reconcile your 
brother and the poultry, and cheer ’em up, is that it ? ” 

“ Well, I don’t know that it’s that exactly,” came the re- 
ply ; “ something of the sort, I suppose. Hardly the job for 
you?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. It sounds rather within my range, 
I think.” 

Burbidge asked if he would care to have some partic- 
ulars. “ My brother has left me a bundle of papers,” he 
said. “ I don’t know what they’re about. I’ll have them 
sent along to you, and any other information my people 
can get hold of. You might look them through if you have 
leisure; there’s no harm in that.” 

Later in the day the particulars were sent ; and Sam, ex- 
amining them, came to at least one conclusion in connection 
with them — Graham Burbidge, the astute man of business, 
was a lavishly generous brother to the weaker members of 
his own family. 

With the papers there was a short covering letter from 
Burbidge. The second paragraph of it, which did not con- 
cern the poultry farm, made Sam consider a minute: it 
asked that he would introduce the writer to Lady Lassiter. 
There was no reason directly stated, and Sam wondered 
whether Burbidge expected Maud or her friends to be use- 
ful to him in the furtherance of some scheme, or whether 
the request had to do with George Burbidge. 

“ Maybe George is proving difficult,” he thought, “ and 
the wily one thinks of getting a move on him from the other 
side.” 

After a moment’s reflection he decided to effect the intro- 
duction, although Burbidge had spoken as he had of Maud. 
When one came to think of it, there was less in what he 
said than what one (Sam) had read into it. Moreover, 


194 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


there was no doubt whatever that the next time he hin> 
self saw Maud she would suggest the introduction of Gra- 
ham Burbidge. He knew her well enough to know, by the 
glance she had cast at him the other night, that her catholic 
interest was aroused. She would ask, first, who he was, 
and then that h£ should be presented to her at the earliest 
opportunity. And if Sam did not do it, George Burbidge 
would be compelled to, even though to his own disadvan- 
tage. 


CHAPTER XI 
MAUD BENEFICENT 


O N the morning after Maud saw Graham Burbidge at 
the restaurant in Soho she did not rise early. She 
seldom did, even at Grange Hall. In London her day never 
began at an uncomfortably early hour. It was half-past 
eleven that morning when she breakfasted, not yet fully 
dressed, but none the less charming in lace cap and wrap- 
per. She read her letters while she had breakfast in the 
little sitting-room overlooking the park. Her bedroom was 
not sunny at this hour, so she had left in favour of the 
little sitting-room. As she read the letters she made plans 
concerning them and other things. She would not, in all 
probability, carry out any of the plans, but that did not 
spoil the pleasure of making them. Half way through she 
turned to lift the kettle from the spirit stove, and as she 
did so broke into a little song which she had heard in the 
play last night. She tried it over once or twice, earnest to 
recollect it perfectly, before she returned to her correspond- 
ence, which by that time had rather lost interest for her. 

At the bottom of the pile of letters was one from Violet ; 
a short one — only a reminder that Maud was dining at the 
Deanery not far from Grange Hall that night. Violet sent 
these reminders occasionally. Maud thought it a capital 
idea of hers, though odd; but then Violet was odd. She 
glanced at the envelope as she threw it aside. Violet’s writ- 
ing was characteristic — plain, straight, and compact, with- 
out ornament; a little like Sam’s, only larger and without 
the unexpected curl at the end of some words. 

Sam! Maud’s thoughts flew to him now — Sam and the 
195 


196 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


chance meeting last night, and the man with him. She 
dwelt on the latter with a speculative interest, then went 
back to Sam. Sam home! It seemed only the other day 
he was last home. Home for good and all now, Violet had 
said, invalided home. She had forgotten all about that, 
never said a word about it to him last night ! How horrid 
of her! Poor old Sammy! She wondered what he would 
do, and how much he had to live on. Just then Ingram 
was announced. 

He halted respectfully on the threshold, even when, in 
accordance with her orders, he was admitted. 

“ May I come in? ” he asked in deference to the lace cap. 

“ If you can endure the sight of me before I’m entirely 
put together,” she answered. 

It was a sight to be enjoyed rather than endured. In- 
gram did not say so in words whatever his expression might 
have suggested to an observer. Maud was not an observer ; 
she went on with her breakfast, serenely unconscious of 
his glance or his impressions. 

“ Pve got an appointment for twelve-thirty this morning,” 
he explained. “ I made a mistake in the time. I thought 
it was for twelve, and, after I had started, remembered it 
was not till half-past.” 

“So you thought you’d kill time with me? Very flat- 
tering. Why didn’t you buy a Daily Mail and sit on the 
Embankment, or have two penn’orth of bus ride to fill the 
time? You might have improved your mind and increased 
your information. Have some tea? It’s rather foul. 
Whisky? A peach, if you’re strong enough to stand such 
things at this hour? You’d better have something, I’ve not 
nearly done yet; it’ll be painful for you to see me eat in- 
definitely. A whisky? That’s right. Help yourself; you 
know where it is. You’ll find a siphon somewhere.” 

He helped himself, going to another room to look for a 
siphon with the informality of intimacy. Maud, in the 


MAUD BENEFICENT 197 

meanwhile, returned in mind to the thoughts about which 
she had been busy when he entered. 

“ Cecil,” she said when he came back, “ what about 
Sam ? ” 

“ Sam ? ” he repeated interrogatively. 

“ Yes — Sam, Sammy, Samuel Bailey, S. Bailey Esquire. 
I don’t know any other ways of putting him or I’d try, but 
perhaps you take me? You do? Good! Well, what 
about him ? ” 

“ What ? ” Ingram asked. “ I’m awfully sorry, but I’m 
afraid I don’t take you after all. Sorry, I’m very dense.” 

“ He’s invalided home,” Maud said. 

Ingram knew that. 

“ Is it really a fact ? ” she asked. “ He’s no more good ? ” 

“ Not for Africa, I’m afraid.” 

“ For what then ? ” 

“ I really don’t know. I know practically nothing about 
him and his affairs.” 

Maud made a little grimace. “ Best official manner,” 
she mocked — “ Government secrets not to be betrayed.” 

Ingram laughed and asked pardon. “ Though really I 
know nothing,” he protested, “ except the official fact that 
he is invalided out of the service on medical authority.” 

“ What’s going to become of him ? ” Maud demanded. 
“ What’s going to be done for him? ” 

Concerning the first Ingram could give no information; 
concerning the second, what he said amounted to “ noth- 
ing,” nicely put. 

“ Why not ? ” Maud asked hotly. “ There’s no pension 
attached to the service? Well, there ought to be! And if 
there isn’t, that’s all the more reason for doing something 
for him. I don’t know what. Of course I don’t, but 
something; some nominal job not beyond his damaged con- 
stitution, with a decent salary. I’m sure there are 
such.” 


198 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


" Unfortunately not to be had for the asking/’ Ingram 
said. 

“ That depends who asks, I expect,” Maud retorted, “ and 
how many times it’s asked for. If I keep on asking long 
enough and, in the end, you ask once effectively, what’s the 
betting we bring it off ? ” 

“ I only wish it were as easy as that,” Ingram said. 

But Maud was not discouraged ; she was genuinely 
aroused on Sam’s behalf, and very earnest in her warm en- 
thusiasm. Ingram was sympathetic, if not with her object 
then with her enthusiasm, which was beautiful. But he was 
less so than she demanded, maintaining his helplessness in 
the matter. 

“ Cecil,” she said at length, “ do you know, you always 
strike me as rather petty about Sam — I should have said, 
almost small-minded about him, if that wasn’t the last 
thing one associated with you. You don’t mind me saying 
this?” 

He did, but he said he did not, then asked what she meant. 

“ The way you stiffen up when you come across him ! ” 
she said. “ Is it because he played the fool when you first 
met him ? I know about that.” 

“ You have the advantage of me then. I had forgotten 
it.” 

Maud laughed, and curled her tongue on the initial letter 
of “ liar.” “ It’s the first time you’ve forgotten anything 
to my knowledge,” she observed ; “ your memory of my 
whims, words, and wardrobe positively embarrass me at 
times.” 

He told her that was different, and also that she gave him 
more credit than he deserved. He did not, for instance, re- 
member what she wore the Sunday they spent up the river 
with the Tillotsons. After a digression on this subject they 
went back to the discussion of Sam and his prospects on 
better terms. With the result that Maud satisfactorily 


MAUD BENEFICENT 


199 


demonstrated that Sam must not now be blamed for his 
folly at Cape Town years ago ; and Ingram made plain that, 
such things apart, it was not within his power to do any- 
thing for him now. 

“Poor old Sammy!” Maud said, sighing. “IPs rough 
on him! You must keep him in mind if there is anything 
going. We must keep him in mind. He’s a real good sort, 
and he’s had rotten bad luck. Let’s ask him to dinner 
to-night. Let’s make a jolly night of it — we three!” 

“ Didn’t you tell me you had an engagement for this 
evening?” Ingram asked. “I thought you spoke of one 
yesterday.” 

“ So I have ! ” she said. “ The Dean’s dinner-party. 
What a bore ! ” 

Her face clouded as she turned over Violet’s reminder. 
“ Isn’t that sickening ! ” she said. “ A stodgy dinner-party 
at which nobody really wants me — his reverence does not 
quite approve of me, and her reverence less, and to which 
quite a crowd of nice, good local women would have loved 
to have been asked in my place. It’s an awful pity I can’t 
transfer my invitation to one of them! We should have 
such an evening, we three together. I feel I should be in 
form to-night. We’d dine somewhere really nice, and go 
and see Pavlova afterwards. I’d love to see her again.” 

“ I suppose you could not cut the Dean ? ” 

The suggestion was tentative rather than enthusiastic. 
One more alive to such things than Maud might have 
fancied, the diner d trois did not commend itself to Ingram 
as it did to her. 

“ I wonder if I could cut it ! ” she said, oblivious of his 
lack of warmth and fascinated by the suggestion. “ Would 
it be very awful? Violet could go in my place. I’m sure 
she’d give satisfaction. After all, it isn’t me they want 
really, it’s Ted — he’s the local magnate. He’ll go without 
me if I tell him to. Could I do it, do you think ? Dare I ? 


£00 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


I do so want you to get to know Sam better. I want you 
two to get on, and there’s nothing like a jolly dinner for 
that. We might ask the Tillotson girl to make a fourth; 
she’s no end of a jest.” 

Ingram agreed. The addition of the Tillotson girl in- 
creased his enthusiasm for the scheme, until he remembered 
that she was out of Town for a day or two. 

“Is she?” Maud said. “Oh, well, we can easily find 
another girl. You aren’t specially keen on her, and Sam 
doesn’t know her. I don’t know who he does know. Nor 
body, I should think, he’s been away so much. No girl but 
Violet ” 

She set down her tea-cup. “ Why shouldn’t we take 
Violet ? ” she said, as the idea occurred to her. “ It’d be a 
treat to her, and Sam’d love it; he’s been bachelor uncle 
to Violet ever since she was that high. It’s most suitable. 
Let’s do it ! ” 

She was delighted with the idea, and with the thought of 
the pleasure it would give to both parties. 

“The Dean’s dinner?” she said, when Ingram referred 
to that again. “ Oh, yes, I must send a telegram. It’s a 
good thing you reminded me. If it goes at once, there will 
be plenty of time for them to get another woman in my 
place, if they are set on having the table full. Violet can’t 
go, of course, as we are going to have her. It’s really bet- 
ter she shouldn’t be thrust in, it’d be awfully stuffy for her ; 
besides, they might not want a young girl. You’ve no idea 
what hair-raising things, in the high moral line, godly ma- 
trons talk about when they’ve left the gentlemen. I’ll write 
out a telegram, and you can send it for me on your way. 
Let’s see, what’s the reason? Influenza? No, wrong time 
of year. Neuralgia? I was dentisting yesterday, really, I 
might be in fearful agony and obliged to see the man again 
to-day. Give me a telegram form ; they’re over there. I’ll 
compose something.” 


MAUD BENEFICENT 


201 


She did so while he sent down word to the porter to get 
him a taxi, as he had little time to spare for his appoint- 
ment. 

“ You might ring me up later on,” Maud said, when she 
had written the telegram, “ then I can tell you when and 
where I’ve fixed for to-night. I’ll get on with Sam at 
once and arrange things.” 

Ingram said he would call on his way back if he might. 
And, permission being accorded, he departed, taking the 
telegram for despatch. 

Maud, full of eagerness for her scheme and pleasure in 
the pleasure it was to give, at once set about preliminaries. 
The first thing to be done was to get into communication 
with Sam. She told her maid to ring up his address, the 
one at which he always used to be found during his so- 
journs in London. 

But a difficulty presented itself here — the address no 
longer existed. The telephone directory contained no such 
name as the one for which the woman looked; and refer- 
ence to Boyton — the male member of the pair who resided 
permanently at the flat — did not help. Boyton was a mine 
of useful information, one of those mines who only yield on 
application, and never overflow with indiscreet or unwanted 
facts. He knew all about the vanished address. The whole 
of that side of the street had been pulled down a year ago, 
and shops now occupied the site of the buildings which used 
to be there. Where the former tenants were he could not 
say. Where their former and occasional tenants were it 
was still possible to say. He could only suggest that the 
gentlemen’s club should be tried. By Maud’s orders it 
was ; she herself, partly dressed, coming to the telephone to 
speak. But the result was valueless. Sam had stayed 
there two nights directly after leaving Grange Hall, but was 
not staying there now. He looked in generally during the 
day; he had been that morning and was just gone. He 


202 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


might come again in the course of the day, but it was un- 
likely. It was not known where he was staying. 

“I must try the Colonial Office/’ Maud said, “they’ll 
know there. He’s sure to have had to report himself, al- 
though he is just out of the service.” 

But the Colonial Office yielded nothing. The clerk who 
answered the telephone knew nothing, could tell nothing, 
and seemed too overcome with the languor, which afflicts 
some people before lunch, to be able to say even that with 
much distinctness. 

Maud hung up the receiver sharply. “ That’s a fool ! ” 
she said, and decided there was nothing to be done till 
Ingram came. She went back to her room and her toilet, 
and was ready soon after Ingram came at a quarter-past 
one. 

But he, though exceedingly sorry to disappoint her, could 
not help. He could only assure her that the clerk at the 
Colonial Office had spoken the truth. It would be as un- 
known there as here where Sam might be temporarily stay- 
ing. 

“ What are we to do ? ” Maud asked. 

Ingram suggested perhaps Violet knew the address. 

“ No,” Maud said, “ she wrote to Sam at the club the day 
after I got back from the Tillotsons’. “ I know, for she 
asked me in her grandmotherly way if I thought they would 
look after him properly there. Violet’s no good; think of 
something else.” 

He could not, and for a moment Maud was at a loss; 
then she hit on the idea of going to a shop, where she knew 
Sam used to deal. 

“ It’s quite likely he’ll have been since he came home,” 
she said ; “ he must want heaps of everything. The things 
would have had to be sent to his address ; they’ll know it. 
I shall go and inquire.” 

Ingram did not think it very likely ; but he readily agreed 


MAUD BENEFICENT 


203 


to accompany her to the shop, and in a little while they 
started. 

Her inquiries, however, were without result. Sam had 
not been to the shop, or, if so, no record remained. The 
shop-walker entered sympathetically into the difficulty. 
Maud had some talk with him, and afterwards spent thirty 
shillings buying something which took her fancy. It took 
her fancy so much that the edge of her disappointment 
about the lack of information was rather removed. She 
went to lunch with Ingram somewhere at hand, full of sat- 
isfaction with her purchase, which she unwrapped as soon 
as they were seated, and about which she talked with pleas- 
ure. 

Towards the end of the meal the question as to what was 
to be done about the evening came up. It was clearly im- 
possible to find Sam in time; she accepted that fact now, 
and though it had seemed a matter of importance to find 
him earlier, she accepted the failure philosophically now. 
But there was still the question as to what she was to do 
that evening. Of course, it was possible to telegraph can- 
celling the earlier telegram and recover from the fallacious 
indisposition ; and, having sent word to Norris to meet her 
at St. Pancras, to return to home and dinner-party. That 
was possible — one might do it. Or one might leave things 
as they were and remain in Town for to-night? 

“ I don’t see how I can wire the Dean woman again,” she 
said. “ It really isn’t fair to upset people’s tables like that. 
She’ll have got my telegram before this and, ten chances to 
one, filled my place.” 

Some might have wondered how this was to have been 
done in the time in a household consisting of two in family 
and three maids, all engaged in preparing for the event of 
the annual dinner-party; more especially at an hour when 
the groom-gardener would be gone to his dinner and so not 
available to carry a note two miles to the nearest suitable 


204 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 

family of obliging daughters. But that did not occur to 
Maud ; details of other people’s lives and situations did not. 
Having settled the Deanery dinner-party arrangements ver- 
bally, she felt she had settled them completely ; and having 
disposed of it by word of mouth it was removed from fur- 
ther consideration. 

As a consequence, a return home was too. 

“ It would be too awfully dull,” she said. “ Ted will 
have to go to that old party, poor dear! It would be 
equally painful whether he takes Violet, and leaves me 
Cinderellaing — I don’t think he can do that though, as I’ve 
said nothing about her in my wire to the Deanery — or 
whether he leaves her to sit staring at me and wondering 
why I’ve told lies. I will confess to you that girl’s eyes get 
on my nerves at times. I really don’t feel much like going 
back. Besides, I’m sure it would not be wise. The serv- 
ants would be certain to tell someone, who would tell some- 
one else, who would tell the Deanery, that I came home all 
right in spite of my disease. I shall have to stay in Town 
to-night.” 

So she stayed. And since it was the last opportunity 
she would have of seeing Pavlova, whose season closed be- 
fore she would be again in Town, she dined with Ingram, 
and went to see the dancer. 

She regretted much that Sam was not there. At dinner 
she drank health and good luck to him, and more than once 
during the evening exclaimed in her enthusiasm for the per- 
formance, “ What a shame old Sammy isn’t here ! ” Once, 
too, she said, “Violet would have enjoyed this! The poor 
child has never seen anything worth seeing ; it’s no wonder 
she’s rather a stick. I must take her next time Pavlova is 
in Town.” The thought of the two who were not there 
increased rather than diminished her enjoyment. She 
thought of them so warmly that she almost felt as if they 
were there, and as if she had included them in her pleas- 


MAUD BENEFICENT 


205 


ure, which thus gained by beneficence. Later she forgot 
them in sheer personal enjoyment, which was very infec- 
tious and very intoxicating in its gay abandonment. 

Ingram brought her back to the flat after they had had 
supper together. By then it was almost midnight, and the 
servants were in bed. 

She fitted the latch-key into the lock, her cloak, loosely 
put on, slipping and impeding her. 

“ Take it off,” she commanded, as she felt with the key. 

Ingram took it, warm and scented from her wearing, 
standing of necessity very close to do it. He crushed it 
together in his hands and stood waiting — the spell of her, 
of the past hours and present hour and dangerous prox- 
imity upon him. 

She opened the door and, leaning across him to the board 
within, switched up the light. 

“ Maud ” 

She turned quickly at the sound of his voice. 

He made a half movement, then, at her turning, pulled 
himself up and stood rigid, his nostrils white with the hard 
intake of breath, his whole body tense as if arrested in the 
act to spring. 

For a moment she met his eyes, then — “ Don’t be idiotic,” 
she said, and went into the little sitting-room to the left of 
the door. 

For a moment he stood where he was, the fragile wrap 
hanging in his hand, the scent of it about him ; then he fol- 
lowed her. 

She had gone to the side-table where whisky and siphons 
stood. 

“ Have a peg ? ” she asked over her shoulder. 

“ Yes — no. No, thanks,” he said. 

She unstoppered a decanter, and poured some spirit. He 
watched her without moving. “ How long is this going 
on?” he said at last. 


206 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ What ? ” she asked, glancing up. “ Don’t look like that ! 
You frighten me! Besides, you’ll make me spill my drink.” 

She stretched towards the siphon, but he arrested her. 

“ You know I love you ! ” he said. 

“ I don’t ! ” she answered. “ I know I am married to 
Ted.” 

“ It does not matter who you are married to ” 

“ It does to me.” 

“ It does not!” 

His hand closed on hers, less by force than by a compul- 
sion of will and passion. “ It does not matter,” he repeated 
low, as one teaching a lesson that will be learned, that he be- 
lieves already half known. He looked into her eyes, and 
drew her towards him. 

“ Maud ! ” he whispered. “ Love ! ” 

She did not resist. For a moment she was given up to a 
sensation, magnetic, physically delicious ; then the diapha- 
nous material of her dress caught on something, and ripped 
suddenly. 

“ Cecil ! ” she cried, laughing unsteadily. “ Look what 
you’ve done ! ” She drew her hand from his, and lifted 
the torn hem. 

“ I shall charge you for it,” she said, backing away and 
speaking rather high. 

“ Maud ! ” There was rage as well as passion in his 
voice, and he made a swift move towards her. 

But she was the other side of the table now. “ You must 
go,” she said, “it’s awfully late. — I’ll send you the bill for 
this in the morning.” She laughed again as she said the 
last, a trifle hysterically. 

“ I am to go ? ” he asked, not moving, but looking at her 
across the table. “ I am to go ? ” 

“Yes! You’re as mad as a hatter to-night. So — so am 
I. It’s Pavlova’s dancing, of course — it goes to one’s head 


MAUD BENEFICENT 


207 


like champagne. It has to mine. We shall be all right 
again in the morning. Say good-night and go.” 

“If you tell me to go I will,” he said, holding her eyes 
with his. 

Her glance wavered a little, but she said, “ I do tell you.” 

He turned on his heel and went, quietly shutting the door 
of the flat after him. 


CHAPTER XII 
MAUD AT HOME 

M AUD returned to Grange Hall, and did several social 
duties in an exemplary manner. She called at the 
Deanery, and made her peace with the Dean and his wife 
so effectually that they felt compensated for the inconve- 
nience her defalcation had caused. She also attended a gar- 
den-party, and took Violet with her, Lassiter having peti- 
tioned to be let off. 

It was a dull garden-party, Maud said. Violet, never 
having been to one before, was not in a position to compare 
it. The hostess, Mrs. Rumbolt, introduced her favourite 
son to Violet, partly with the idea of croquet, partly to res- 
cue him from a mature lady upon whom he was reluctantly 
attending. He was rescued, though the croquet was not 
arranged. He took Maud to see the prize pigeons his father 
bred, while Violet sat under the mulberry tree with the ma- 
ture lady. This was not Maud’s fault. She could not help 
that Violet was speechless on an introduction in her pres- 
ence, nor that elderly ladies naturally liked the girl, ex- 
panded in her company, and sought to retain it. 

Maud spent half an hour looking at the prize pigeons 
and other things with Tony Rumbolt and a college friend of 
his. Then, remembering Violet, she sent one of them for 
her. He could not find her, and came back to say so. 
Maud called him a stupid, sent him for an ice, in securing 
which he was more fortunate, and some twenty minutes 
later said she must go home. 

“ Well, I’ve saved you that! ” she said in a congratulatory 
tone to Violet, as they drove away before an elderly friend 

208 


MAUD AT HOME 


209 


of the family had been able to fulfil his promise and show 
her the rock garden. 

Violet would like to have seen the rock garden, but she 
did not say so, and Maud went on to speak of the dullness 
of the party. 

“ I used to say I enjoyed everything,” she said, yawning; 
“ that I never did a thing I didn’t enjoy. I must be get- 
ting old, I think. I certainly didn’t enjoy that party — I was 
bored stiff. And as for to-morrow ! Fancy motoring six 
miles in the dust to a children’s gymnasium display and 
Maypole dance ! Heavens ! What it is to live in the coun- 
try and subscribe for Maypoles and gymnasium sticks or 
whatever they use, and, for your sins, say you’ll go and look 
at them displaying! Why did I say I’d do it? We must 
do something to cheer us up the day after. I’m sure we 
deserve it. Let’s ask somebody lively to come down. Who 
shall it be ? ” 

Violet knew very few of Maud’s friends. She suggested 
the names of the one or two she could think of. Maud 
negatived them all. Either the person was not likely to be 
able to come, or else she did not want that one. Then 
she made a suggestion herself. 

“ Sam ! ” she cried, “ Let’s have Sam. He’s not specially 
lively, certainly, poor little chap. I don’t see how he is to 
be, full of fever and generally in low water; but let’s have 
him. It’ll do him good to come. I meant to ask him be- 
fore this. I’ll send a wire to his club when we get in. 
When I see him I shall tell him what I think of him for 
leaving no address.” 

Violet was not quite sure she wanted Sam asked. He 
had said he would come again when he could, and Maud 
had told him to let her know when he wanted to. Since 
he had not done so yet it was to be concluded either that 
he could not or did not wish to come. She had a shy 
shrinking, which she did not herself understand, from ask- 


210 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


in g. But that did not matter now; it did not occur to 
Maud, and would not have been taken into consideration if 
it had. Sam was asked, and in due time came. 

Maud received him gaily. “ Well, Sammy ! ” she cried. 
“ The sick man of Africa, the poor old wreck! Where 
are the crutches and the hot water bottle and all the other 
etceteras? I hope you’ve brought all you want. My lim- 
ited household can’t supply deficiencies. But it is jolly to 
see you, even though thus. You certainly do look thin and 
washed out.” 

“ That’s more than can be said for your ladyship,” Sam 
replied. 

“Do you mean I’m fat? Sam! Where are your man- 
ners? You ought to say * Maud, you’re not altered a scrap 
since I went away two, or fifty-two years ago.’ ” 

“You have altered,” Sam said; “I thought so when I 
saw you in Town.” 

“ How altered? ” Maud demanded. “ Got older, got fat- 
ter, got worse? Tell the awful truth.” 

“ Got more so, I think,” Sam said, and turned to greet 
Violet who came out of the house with Jack. 

At tea Maud referred to the chance meeting in Town, 
asking, as Sam had foreseen, who it was with him that 
night. 

“ Quite a remarkable person,” she explained to her hus- 
band, “ most beautifully preserved and groomed ; on the 
wrong side of fifty, I’ll swear, but quite a personage; just 
a hint of the Chosen People about him, as if he’d had a rela- 
tive who’d had a relative who was a Jew.” 

“ I’ve not heard of it,” Sam said ; “ maybe you have. 
You know members of the family. He’s Graham Bur- 
bidge.” 

“ Graham Burbidge ? ” Lassiter said, interested, as most 
are, in who and what is concerned with successful money- 
making. 


MAUD AT HOME 


211 


“ He’s not a bit like his brother,” Maud declared ; 
“ though, now I come to think of it, he’s a little like the 
brother’s son. I should like to meet him. Sam, you must 
introduce him.” 

“ I will. Next time you’re in Town, let me know, and 
I’ll arrange it,” Sam said, meeting Violet’s eyes, and giving 
her a reassuring glance. 

“ And pray what were you doing with this financial 
prince?” Maud asked when she had exhausted her other 
questions about Burbidge. “ Was he putting you on to 
something good in the City? May we know what it is? 
To think that I have, this while past, been sympathizing 
with your poverty and distress, while all the time you’re 
in with this gold mine! Sam, I feel defrauded! The 
thought of you, a broken man on tuppence a year, has kept 
me awake o’ nights ! ” 

“ Is that true ? ” Violet’s voice struck in a serious note, 
while her eyes, earnestly watching the face of each speaker 
in turn, were bent on Sam now, very dark and grave. 

“ No,” Sam said, “ nothing on earth can keep Maud 
awake o’ nights ; also, Graham Burbidge is not a gold mine, 
I am not a broken man, and my income does not stand at 
the humble figure of twopence.” 

“ Tuppence ha’penny,” Maud said. " Don’t show off to 
the girl, Sam. Violet, he has, in a manner of speaking, not 
enough to keep body and soul together, let alone clothe the 
body sufficiently to satisfy the demands of propriety.” 

“ Is it true ? ” Violet asked again, speaking to Sam a little 
as if Maud were not there. 

Sam shifted under her regard. “You can believe it if 
you like,” he said ; “ you know how Maud talks. If I may 
be allowed to talk, I might mention that Graham Burbidge 
has suggested an occupation for my superfluous time and 
energies, both of which seemed likely to rather hang on 
hand when I first came home.” 


21 2 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


The remark was addressed generally, and Violet per- 
ceived that he did not want to go into details with her just 
now. She said no more, and Maud asked what he was 
going to do, and what fortune make out of it. 

He told her of the eldest Burbidge and the poultry farm, 
and how he had undertaken, if he gave satisfaction to the 
former, to look after the latter for a while. 

“ Anyway till I’m really fit again,” he said. “ It’s a light 
job, and one I ought to be able to do now. It’ll fill the 
time nicely till I’m ready for something else. I can’t stand 
doing nothing, you know.” 

He did not look at Violet as he spoke, but he was speak- 
ing to her rather than Maud, though it was she who replied : 

“ How delicious ! ” she said. “ Sam, the hen-wife, hen- 
husband. Can one have a hen-husband? Isn’t it lovely? 
I’d like it myself. I am sure I could look after hens and old 
Burbidges.” 

“ There’s a good deal of money to be made out of poultry 
farming, I believe,” Lassiter said. “ I was reading some 
statistics the other day ” 

“ Sam’ll make money,” Maud interrupted. “ We shall 
all get poultry from him. I shall tell everyone I know they 
are to. It’s a nuisance; they are grown on the premises 
usually. Economical people mayn’t see buying merely to 
oblige. I shall; Ted, we’ll have all the hens done away 
with, and Jack shall have the pens and things for rabbits 
and hedgehogs. Still, it is a pity, Sam. Why isn’t it soap, 
or cheese, or petrol, or some other necessity of life that no 
one can grow for themselves ? ” 

“ Because the eldest brother Burbidge had a fancy for 
hens,” Sam said. “ You can’t cure that family of their 
fancies easily, whether it’s Algernon for hens, or Graham 
for money-making.” 

“ Or George for Maud,” Lassiter said, laughing good- 
humoredly. 


MAUD AT HOME 


213 


He was not in the least jealous, his faith in Maud was 
boundless, and his nature easy-going. He was amused 
rather than otherwise by the admiration she received, when, 
as in this instance of George Burbidge, it was so obvious 
that he perceived it. He laughed about him now, and 
Maud defended him, saying she liked him, and should ask 
him to come one day soon. 

Sam thought it was possible Graham Burbidge might 
intervene, and determined to tell Violet so for her comfort 
when he should see her alone. 

It was some time before he did see her alone. Not that 
day at all. Maud sat talking till almost dinner-time, and 
though he hurried over dressing and came down betimes, 
he found Lassiter down before him. After dinner, of 
course, there was no chance, as Maud far out-stayed Violet 
in sitting up; indeed, she sent the girl to bed early, believ- 
ing it to be beneficial for her, and also believing, since she 
felt more at ease with her gone, that Sam must too. 

“ One must be careful what one says before a girl of that 
age,” she remarked. 

“ She doesn’t strike me as particularly infantile,” Sam 
said. 

“ Infantile ! ” Maud rejoined. “I should think not! 
She makes me feel infantile, at least twenty years the 
younger at times. She does things, and thinks of things, 
and remembers things. It’s perfectly wonderful ! ” 

“ It’s jolly convenient,” Lassiter said. 

“ Hear him ! ” Maud cried tragically, “ my husband ! 
His affection stolen from me, bought by a mess of pottage, 
served to time, and put in the proper place. Men are all 
alike, slaves of the material ! ” 

“ Maud ! ” Lassiter protested. “ I say, you know I don’t 
mean that! I wouldn’t have you changed for anything on 
earth ! ” 

He was seriously afraid he had hurt her. But she reas- 


214 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


sured him. “ Old silly ! ” — she laughed — “ I’m only too 
thankful that you find Violet satisfactory. It’s your house, 
and she’s my relation. It would be too painful if you found 
her a nuisance.” 

“No one could find her that,” Lassiter said warmly, and, 
Maud agreeing, the subject dropped. 

Sam rose in good time the next morning. From his ac- 
quaintance with Violet he guessed she would be up before 
Lassiter, and still more before Maud. And he was right; 
he found her in the garden some while before breakfast. 
Jack was with her, but she sent him away to feed his rab- 
bits with a garden-boy to help him. 

“ Is it true, what Maud said yesterday ? ” she asked, com- 
ing to the matter on her mind at once — “ I mean, about 
you ? ” 

“About the tuppence-ha’penny? No, it’s an exaggera- 
tion.” 

“ But it is partly true,” she insisted. He might have 
known she would have informed herself, so far as possible, 
of the real state of the case by this. “ You have very, very 
little ” 

“ Jane, that’s rude of you ! It’s not manners to insist on 
a person’s poverty like that.” 

“ And you bought Countershell ! ” she said remorsefully. 
“I made you buy Countershell! I didn’t know. I never 
thought ! ” 

“ Of course you did not know what my income was since 
I did not tell you,” he replied, “ and of course you did as I 
told you and made it possible for me to do what I wanted, 
which was to buy Countershell.” 

“ Did you want to buy it, or was it only because of that 
cable I sent? I was frantic, I think, when I cabled. Was 
it because of that ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said Sam. “ I shouldn’t have known it was 
possible to buy it if you hadn’t cabled.” 


MAUD AT HOME 


215 


“ But did you want it? You offered me to buy it your- 
self or get Maud to buy it ; you said it did not matter which 
I chose. If you had wanted it for yourself it would have 
mattered; I never thought of that before. You couldn’t 
have wanted it ; you could not live in it then ; and now ” 

“ Now I’ve got a house to retire to if I’ve a mind to re- 
tire.” 

“ Will you live in it?” 

“ Not just at present. I’ve got to live with the poultry.” 

“ You mean you can’t afford to? You’ve got to do this 
with the poultry, or something similar, because you’ve not 
enough to live on, and because you’ve got Countershell ? ” 

Sam sat down on a garden seat. “ Jane, you tire me,” 
he said ; “ your questions are such triple, quadruple, and al- 
together multiple affairs. Let me start in questioning my- 
self now ; it’s my turn. First, have you any objection to a 
man working for his living, or his amusement, or anything 
else? No? I thought not. Indeed, from what I recollect 
of conversations we had together when I was last home, you 
approved such a proceeding then, and since have had occa- 
sional ideas of doing something in the line yourself. Sec- 
ond, have you any objection to poultry — as a subject of 
work, I mean, not as an article of diet? You haven’t? 
I’m glad of that. Though if you had, there’s still Mr. Al- 
gernon Burbidge. His brother said he had the business ca- 
pacity of a hen, but one thinks he must be a somewhat 
higher order of biped really, and so might be thought to 
raise the level of the job. The last question concerns 
Countershell — though that is one for me to answer rather 
than ask, I suppose. I will explain the situation if you wish 
it. I bought the house, as you suggest, when I could not 
live in it, with money I could not then spend, and might as 
well have invested that way as any other. Having invested 
it that way, I cannot now spend it — live on it, I think is 
your expression — which is a good thing, as to do so would 


216 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


be what is called spending principal, which anyone will tell 
you is a highly immoral proceeding.” 

“ If you had invested it in something else, you would have 
got interest,” Violet said. 

“ Should I? ” Sam said. “ That’s not my invariable ex- 
perience of investments; still, you may be right. I in- 
vested in a thing called the Central African Gold Syndicate 
once upon a time; it wouldn’t take a bushel-basket, or a 
thimble either, to cover the interest I have received so far.” 

Violet’s knowledge of such matters was necessarily 
meagre. “ I thought one got money that way sometimes,” 
she said, puzzled — “ from investments, I mean.” 

“ Lots of people think that,” Sam replied ; “ sometimes it 
comes off, and sometimes it doesn’t.” 

“ I see,” she said — “ this hasn’t ? ” and she went back to 
the subject of Countershell. “ If you were to sell it,” she 
argued, “ you could buy a poultry farm of your own with 
the money, or perhaps something better.” 

“ Couldn’t sell it,” he assured her. “ I don’t want to hurt 
your feelings, but Countershell is not everyone’s money; it 
is not to be disposed of easily.” 

“ Maud would buy it.” 

She spoke low, looking before her, not at him. 

“ Maud is not going to,” he said. 

She turned, and their eyes met. “ Oh, but she must ! ” 
she said with quivering lips. “ You must sell it ! You 
can’t keep it just because — because of me!” 

“ I can, and I’m going to,” he answered. 

“ Oh, no, no, no ! ” she said. “ You mustn’t do it ! You 
must not ! ” 

The last word ended on a sob. She choked it back, and 
struggled with herself for composure. “ I — I want you to 
sell it,” she said. 

He nodded. “ I understand,” he said. “ It’s all right 
— it’s all perfectly clear. I’ve never had two opinions about 


MAUD AT HOME 


217 


it. I don’t generally want to do what anyone’s set against 
me doing, but this time I do. I want Countershell, and I’m 
going to keep it, no matter who wants otherwise. There’s 
nothing to be said about it — there never was anything.” 

Violet had nothing to say for a moment ; there were tears 
in her throat. “ Is it — is it because of me ? ” she asked at 
last. 

“ Because of you and me,” he answered ; “ and Cuddy, 
too, I think. I can’t explain, but I know. It’s perfectly 
clear to me, and I’m going to keep Countershell.” 

She lifted eyes wet but shining. “ Samuel,” she began, 
and then the breakfast gong sounded. 

“ Breakfast ! ” Sam exclaimed. “ And I haven’t told you 
what I came out to say ! Well, I don’t suppose anyone will 
be down yet, so we needn’t go for a while. What I really 
wanted to say is this: I don’t think you need bother your- 
self about Burbidge — George, I mean. Graham — he’s the 
head man of that tribe — is going to send him to Canada; 
and he’ll probably have to stay there long enough to cool 
down and reconsider himself, and give time for his place 
here to be filled with admirer, number one hundred and 
ninety-seven. And I don’t think the place will be applied 
for by Brother Graham, though, even if it is, you may be 
easy on his wife and family’s account, as he hasn’t got any. 
You will be able to judge for yourself whether he is likely 
to succumb. You’ll see him when you go to Town. Maud 
is going to take you with her next time she goes. Hulloa, 
here’s the son of your adoption demanding his breakfast.” 

Jack demanded emphatically, insisting that they should 
come in and begin without waiting for anyone else. They 
went, and, as they did so, Sam mentioned the one other 
thing he had been able to arrange for Violet. 

“ I had a talk about schools last night,” he said. “ They 
don’t think now of sending the boy till Christmas. I 
shouldn’t be surprised if the time of grace was lengthened 


218 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


out till next summer if you succeed in teaching him to ride 
as well as to ’rithmetic. Lassiter seems keener on the rid- 
ing than the ’rithmetic, and the little chap, I gather, is a 
deal more nervous about it. Why on earth didn’t you say 
you were riding as soon as you were fairly walking, and 
better fitted to teach a nervous boy than any groom going? 
I hear you have not been on a horse since you came 
home.” 

“ There isn’t a lady’s horse in the stable,” Violet said. 
“ Maud does not ride.” 

“ Well, Lassiter realizes that you do now,” Sam said, 
and followed her into the house, satisfied that he had done a 
little to improve things during this short visit. 

Short it was, for he went back to Town that afternoon. 
He had arranged to go the next day to a model poultry 
farm for the purpose of getting some technical instruction 
and information before beginning work with Algernon Bur- 
bidge. And having made the arrangement, he declined to 
alter it; rather to the annoyance of Maud, who could not 
see why he should not begin the course of instruction as 
well one day as another. However, as she could not pre- 
vail with him, he went away and she did not really greatly 
mind. 

“ Poor old Sammy ! ” she said. “ He hasn’t the verve he 
had. It’s that beastly climate, of course. He’s aged a lot ; 
nothing like the old spring. The best of good sorts he al- 
ways will be, but one can conceive that at times he might be 
just a leetle heavy on hand.” 

She found time rather heavy on hand just now if the truth 
was known. Her appetite for social duties was spent. 
She declined the next country invitation she received, and 
failed to appear at a garden-party she had already accepted. 
She said Lassiter must go, and take Violet to represent 
her. Violet had already represented her at the gymnasium 
display. But when the day came she played golf with 


MAUD AT HOME 219 

Lassiter on the small course not far from the house till 
it was too late for him to go. 

The next day she displayed an appetite for domestic 
duties — in the morning going into unoccupied rooms and 
inquiring into various things, and in the afternoon motor- 
ing fifteen miles to find a seamstress she had heard of 
to remake some curtains. The seamstress, when found, 
proved to be a dressmaker only, and Violet undertook the 
curtains. After that she turned her attention to prepara- 
tions for the cottage flower show, which was to be held as 
formerly in a field near the house. Usually her part was 
confined to being present in the afternoon and being pleas- 
ant to everyone, but this year she displayed a more active 
interest beforehand. She decided to make something of a 
festivity of it, and to add various entertainments for the 
benefit of the cottage exhibitors. The committee, used to 
the time-honoured entertainments of the local band and vil- 
lage sports, did not quite approve. But she did not realize 
that. She was delighted with her ideas, and was sure every- 
one else must be, and devoted herself to arranging them, 
and allotting everyone a share in carrying them out. 

“ By the way, you might ask the Thingummys,” she said 
to Violet ; “ they could help with the cocoanut shies and com- 
petitions.” 

“Who?” Violet asked. 

“ The — what’s-their-names, your cousins. Sam said, 
when he was here, they ought to be asked. It’ll be a good 
time to have them.” 

* Violet coloured. “ I don’t think he did say that,” she 
said. 

He had not. He had asked if she had seen the Whites 
lately, and, when he heard she had been there once for a 
brief afternoon visit, remarked that it was a pity not to see 
something of them. Maud did not remember his words, 
only the impressions she had gathered that he, rather tire- 


220 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


somely, thought she ought to have done, or not done, some- 
thing about the Whites. 

She stared at Violet’s flushed face now. “ My dear girl,” 
she said, “ what’s the matter ? ” 

“ Nothing,” Violet answered. “ But he did not say that, 
and he did not mean it. He would not think of saying you 
ought to ask them or anyone here.” 

“ Oh, yes, he would if he thought it,” Maud replied. “ I 
assure you there is quite a conscience-keeper developing in 
Sam. I noticed it a lot this last time. Not that it matters 
anyway what he said or what he didn’t. I don’t mind the 
Whites coming. You goose — you don’t think I do, do you? 
I think it’d be quite a good thing to have them; we want 
some young things to help. Write and ask them to come 
for that week-end. Tell them to come on Friday; the fes- 
tivities begin at the ungodly hour of two o’clock on Satur- 
day, and there is sure to be plenty to be done beforehand. 
Tell them both to come. There are two, aren’t there — a boy 
and a girl ? ” 

There were more than that, Violet said ; but she thought 
Mina and Bernard would be the best to ask. Acting on 
Maud’s instructions she asked them, still, however, feeling 
a trifle doubtful about it. 

A few days later Lassiter suggested another guest. 
“ What about Ingram ? ” he said. “ He said he’d come 
down for this affair when we saw him at the Tillotsons.” 

“ Did he ? ” Maud replied, yawning — this not from a pre- 
tence of indifference to the subject, but from quite genuine 
ennui. Her interest in the preparations for the flower show 
and fete were expended, and she was finding life dull again. 

“Yes, he did,” Lassiter said — “don’t you remember? 
He said he liked those sort of shows. He booked the 
date, I think. Didn’t he say anything to you about it ? ” 

“ I haven’t heard from him for ages,” she said. 

She had not heard since that night when he brought her 


MAUD AT HOME 


221 


back to the flat after they went to see Pavlova. She did 
not know whether she expected to hear or not. Nothing 
quite like this had occurred in her experience before. 
Things had occurred before, of course — things unexpected 
and unforeseen by herself. It is a mistake to imagine the 
whole human race learns by experience — a part of it does 
not. Maud was of that part. Former contretemps were 
always obliterated from her mind in the enjoyment of the 
present pleasure. She, to the full, enjoyed the pleasure of 
liking and being liked; or some might possibly have called 
it, loving and being loved. The end when it came, and when 
the man’s emotion broke bounds in some way, was always a 
surprise and a distress to her, no matter how many not 
dissimilar experiences had gone before. But heretofore 
everything had been right again after a time. She had got 
over her shock. He, whoever he was, had apologized ; and 
she, with large-hearted tolerance which could forgive what 
it could not share, had forgiven, and the two of them had 
parted or remained friends. Preferably remained friends. 
She always felt friendly towards them. 

But Ingram had not apologized, and had not come back, 
and the incident was not like any one of those which had 
gone before. She never analyzed anything — her own feel- 
ings, other people’s, or any situation which arose. It did 
not occur to her to inquire whether there was any difference 
in herself as well as in the man. Her principal thought 
now in connection with what had happened was that it was 
hard if he was never to come back because of it, if she was 
never to see him again. It had taken a little time for their 
intimacy to reach its present perfect point, a point which no 
previous intimacy had ever quite reached, and it had been 
retained at this high level for a long while. She did not 
want to lose it ; it would be to lose a great deal. It was ab- 
surd to lose it now, absurd to part when neither of them 
wanted to because of an idiotic accident ! “ Any man will 


222 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


make love to you, given the right time and place; and be 
ashamed of himself for doing it the next morning,” was her 
opinion. But the fact remained, Ingram had not announced 
his shame. He was probably too ashamed of the momen- 
tary lapse to do so, or to sue for the pardon he feared 
might not be granted. On the other hand, it was, of course, 
possible that he was less ashamed than convinced he had 
made another sort of mistake, or, perhaps, that she had. 
But she did not seriously consider that; she did not se- 
riously consider the whys and wherefores of the business 
at all. She merely felt that an unfortunate contretemps 
had happened, and that she had not seen or heard from him 
since, and that everything was boring and annoying. And 
now here was her husband, who liked all her friends for 
her sake, and Ingram best of them for himself as well, ask- 
ing when he was coming. 

“ I don’t know,” she said ; “ perhaps he isn’t coming. He 
didn’t say anything to me about it when I last saw him.” 

“ Forgotten all about it,” Lassiter said. “ I’ll send him 
a reminder.” 

Why not ? Why shouldn’t he write ? Why should he be 
deprived of the society of the man he liked? Why should 
they all three deprive themselves of what they liked because 
of ? Really because of a ridiculous convention, and be- 

cause of a few words spoken, which certainly ought not to 
have been spoken, but which actually had hurt no one; 
which, it is true, could not be unsaid, but which could be 
forgotten. She herself had begun to forget them, would 
soon entirely do so, more especially if the speaker came 
back, and the old relationships were re-established. It was 
much saner to ignore these things and go on happily as if 
they had not occurred — saner and better taste, and much 
pleasanter for everyone. If by any extraordinary and un- 
likely chance the man did not think so, he need not come, 
he could refuse her husband’s invitation. 


MAUD AT HOME 


“ Write if you like,” she said. 

And Lassiter wrote. 

The next day, the Thursday before the flower show, and 
also board day at the brewery, she received a telegram : 

“May I come? C.L” 

She read it. She was alone at the time, Lassiter being at 
the board meeting, and Violet out. 

She sent an answer : 

“ Please yourself , and do not be an ass.” 

The next morning Lassiter had a letter from Ingram say- 
ing he would arrive by a late afternoon train. 


CHAPTER XIII 
VIOLET IN TOWN 

I T was not till the latter part of July that Maud took 
Violet to Town, in accordance with her promise to 
Sam. Several things kept her at Grange Hall till then, the 
cottage flower show and fete among them, though it cannot 
be said she was very much concerned with this when the 
time came, having her interest absorbed in something else 
by then. She had nothing to do with the actual prepara- 
tions, and did not appear on the occasion itself till nearly 
tea-time, when she went down to the field with Ingram, 
who had arrived the night before, and was charming to 
everybody for a couple of hours. Violet took a very active 
part and enjoyed it much, materially helping to make it a 
success, both by work beforehand and participation in the 
festivity itself. Her cousins, Mina and Bernard, helped 
her and enjoyed it too. Their visit to Grange Hall was on 
the whole satisfactory. They were useful at the fete, and 
Violet was glad to see them again, and early assured that 
their coming was no trouble to Maud. If Maud had had 
them invited from a sense of duty, it was a duty which re- 
quired no effort in the fulfilling — the invitation given and 
accepted, and they come; she thought little more about 
them, one way or the other. 

They, or, at least, one of them, thought a certain amount 
about her. Mina observed her closely with eyes more keen 
than friendly perhaps. On the last night of the visit she 
spoke of her to Violet. 

“ I think,” she said, “ it would have been better if Lady 
Lassiter had come with us to the opening of the fete, in- 

224 


VIOLET IN TOWN 225 

stead of spending most of the afternoon here with Mr. In- 
gram in her pocket.” 

“ She wasn’t ready in time,” Violet said. “ It was a pity. 
The people would have liked her to have been there, but 
we got along pretty well, I think.” 

“We got along very well,” Mina replied. “ I must say 
you ran that whole show awfully well — and you did run it, 
what running it wanted, after she came as well as before. 
I would never have believed you could have done it. I 
wasn’t thinking of that ; I was thinking of Mr. Ingram.” 

“ What about him ? ” Violet asked, arrested by the tone. 
“ What do you mean ? ” 

“You haven’t seen it?” Mina said. “You haven’t 
really?” 

“ Seen what ? ” 

“ That he’s in love with her, of course.” 

“ He isn’t ! ” 

“ He is ! ” Mina insisted. “ Do you think men never 
fall in love with married women — that married women have 
no affairs ? ” 

“ In books I dare say,” Violet said, “ but not really. The 
married women one knows don’t have love affairs. And, 
anyhow, I know you’re wrong about Maud and Mr. In- 
gram. He’s just a great friend of hers. He’s known her 
three years.” 

“ That’s nothing to do with it,” Mina said, as one much 
experienced. “ Time has nothing whatever to do with it. 
Some men fall in love at once, some anytime during a life- 
time’s friendship. You never can tell when or why they’ll 
do it. Certainly he’s done it now. He’s desperately in love 
with her, I know that.” 

She proceeded to give her reasons for this opinion, list- 
ing evidence — a mass of small details such as Violet had 
passed before, but could not deny- now. The observation 
of which by Mina demonstrated the deadly accuracy of 


226 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


young perceptions, and also, perhaps, the doubtful wisdom 
of filling the stage as Maud did, and relegating sensitive 
vanity and watchful youth to the post of unfriendly ob- 
server. 

“ He doesn’t really see anyone else,” Mina concluded, 
when she had given all her evidence and incidents. “ He 
does not see anyone when she is there. He is thinking of 
her all the time really, though he may answer you and seem 
to listen to you. He knows what she will want before she 
wants it, and what she will say before she says it. His 
hands are hot or cold according as he is near or far from 
her. He watches her all the time, though he pretends not 
to. He overdoes the pretending, I consider, or else he is in 
the habit of doing it for greater fools than I am. I tell 
you, he is in love with her if ever man was, it is perfectly 
plain. Can’t you see it yourself now? ” 

Violet did not answer. She did not know what to say. 
To deny Mina’s evidence was out of the question; every 
one of her small facts were correct. She remembered them 
herself now they were pointed out. What had been de- 
duced from them might, of course, be incorrect. She 
wanted to think so, but it was not so very easy. She did, 
after a moment, combat a point here and there, but in her 
heart she had an instinctive feeling that it was true. 

“ But if it is,” she said, “ if it is, what are we to do ? ” 

“ Nothing, of course,” Mina replied in surprise. “ What 
should we?” 

Violet did not know. “ I don’t believe anyone on earth 
could make Maud see it,” she said ; “ make her see how Mr. 
Ingram feels — if he does feel.” 

“ See he’s in love with her?” Mina said contemptuously. 
“ Of course she sees it ! Do you mean to say you think she 
doesn’t know ? ” 

“ I’m sure she doesn’t. She wouldn’t let it go on if she 
did.” 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


m 

Mina was convinced of the contrary. “ She pretends she 
doesn’t,” she said. “ I grant you that, but that’s because 
if she admitted it she might have to end it one way or the 
other, and she doesn’t want to. And he helps her pretend 
by keeping within bounds and not actually making love to 
her. But it’s all humbug.” 

“ It isn’t ! ” Violet said in distress, and persisted in the 
opinion. 

And though she could not convince Mina, she was to a 
certain extent right. Maud was not consciously pretending 
to herself or anyone else. She had blotted out the incident 
in the flat, and such blotting to her included doing away 
with cause and consequence too — in fact, not recognizing 
that any such existed or could exist. She was pleased to 
consider she and Ingram were back where they had been 
before — close and intimate friends in a friendship she did 
not want to spare. She wished them to be such, and — as 
the wish was not only the father and mother of a fact with 
her, but something so like the fact itself that she acted as 
if it were one — she so acted now, and was perfectly happy 
about it; enjoying life with, if possible, an extra zest and a 
spice of small unexplained excitement added to it. 

Violet, observing her with Ingram, was sure Mina was 
wrong in thinking her a conscious party to his passion ; 
though at the same time she was gradually, and against her 
will, convinced her cousin was right as to the existence of 
that passion. Ingram was in love with Maud. Enlight- 
ened by Mina, she now perceived it ; and Maud, unwittingly, 
was, by her charm, by her company, by her frank enjoy- 
ment of his, and all the other things that were her, increas- 
ing it. Violet was in considerable doubt as to what she 
ought to do, though most doubt of all as to whether it were 
any use to do anything. She was glad that Ingram only 
came once again to Grange Hall during July. If Maud did 
not see him, the problem would solve itself the only way 


228 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


it seemed likely to be able to be solved. She did not see 
him again, except that once, until they went to Town. 

It was quite the latter part of the month when they went. 
A good many of Maud’s friends had already left; but that 
did not matter, as she said they would have little time to see 
anyone or go anywhere — she had so much to do at dress- 
makers and dentists and photographers. They would be 
hard at work with these all day, and too tired for anything 
in the evening except to dine quietly at home or perhaps go 
to a play, if there was anything still on that was worth see- 
ing. They dined with Sam one evening, the one after they 
came to Town. Maud wrote and told him they were com- 
ing, reminding him that he had promised to introduce Gra- 
ham Burbidge ; and he took a holiday from the poultry farm 
where he was receiving instruction and came to Town for 
the occasion. 

Violet enjoyed the evening immensely. It was the first 
festivity of the kind in her experience. She also enjoyed 
it for other reasons ; some she did not define or quite recog- 
nize. Some she did — for instance, that she was interested 
in Graham Burbidge, and found him not only flatteringly 
agreeable, but quite easy to talk to — much easier than she 
had ever before found one of “ Maud’s people,” especially 
in Maud’s dazzling proximity. 

She put him down at once as belonging to the vague group 
she called “ Maud’s people ; ” far more completely belong- 
ing to it than his brother had ever done, though in a differ- 
ent way — not one which would entail losing his head or his 
heart or anything else on Maud’s account. He belonged to 
the group because he was a rich man — richer, probably, 
than any of the others, and knew the world as well, possibly 
better, than any of them, and talked with the same, or more, 
ease of things beyond her own ken, some beyond Maud’s 
ken. But he would never be a satellite or even a fixed star 
in Maud’s horizon. He admired her, as he admired the 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


ruby in the ring which she took off for his inspection, but 
no more than that. He really bestowed as much attention 
on Violet as on Maud, with some subtle difference not 
prejudicial to the former. 

Maud, for her part, approved him, though she was not so 
enthusiastic as she sometimes was. She had not advanced 
so far with him as she often did with new acquaintances. 
However, she was interested, and when he asked if he 
might call, she gave permission, telling him to make it late 
if he could, as they were out most of the day, but at home 
and usually dull in the evenings. 

One evening, as it happened, promised to be less dull 
than the others, for they were invited to a dance — rather a 
chance invitation — given in the dentist’s waiting-room by 
a woman Maud knew slightly. She recognized Maud as 
soon as she came into the room with the enthusiasm of one 
less sure of her own social standing than of that of the 
person recognized. She was very charming to Maud, and 
to Violet too, while they waited for their respective appoint- 
ments. She gave up hers, which was the earlier one, in 
favour of Maud, when she heard she was short of time. 
Before they parted she pressed Maud to bring Violet to a 
small dance she was giving the next night; and Maud con- 
sented. She never refused anybody anything they asked if 
she could help it — it was so much pleasanter not; though 
the fact that she agreed at the moment was no guarantee 
that she would do it when the time came. 

On this occasion it certainly .was not. She had rather 
lost her earlier enjoyment of dancing, and had no inclina- 
tion to go to a dance at the house of a woman she did not 
care for at this time of year. “ Remind me to ring her up 
to-morrow,” she said to Violet as they left the dentist’s. 
“A just remembered previous engagement will do it, or a 
disease, or something. What ? ” as she caught sight of 
Violet’s disappointed face. “ Do you want to go ? 99 


230 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ Not if you don’t/’ Violet said. 

“ But of course ! ” Maud cried. “ Of course we will go 
if you’d like it ! You silly child, why didn’t you say you’d 
like it! If I’d had any idea of that, I’d have fallen upon 
her neck! It’s the merest chance I didn’t refuse right off, 
only because I hadn’t a lie ready. Of course we will go. 
She’s rather an awful person, and there may be some rather 
awful persons there, but it won’t matter; if I’m with you, 
they won’t introduce anything not all right. You haven’t 
got a very suitable garment, I’m afraid. Norris must see 
to your white frock ; she’ll be able to do something with it.” 

Violet protested again that she did not mind about going 
if Maud would rather not. But Maud declared they 
would and entered into arrangements with her usual en- 
thusiasm. So it was settled, and Norris received orders 
about the white frock, and went to work on ib 

But the next day when they came back about five o’clock 
from a rather long visit to the dressmaker’s, Maud was 
called to the telephone. Violet, who had gone to her room 
to take off her hat, heard her talking through the open door ; 
the rooms were so close together in the flat that it was dif- 
ficult not to hear. 

“ To-night?” she heard her say in delight, the delight 
with which she greeted some particularly attractive promise 
of enjoyment. “ Will I? Rather!” 

“What?” she heard after a pause. “Yes, yes, awful 
luck. You always were a lucky devil. I’m another. 
Yes, I am. Haven’t you asked me to come with you? ” 

Violet went to her door to close it ; the conversation was 
not private, or Maud would have closed the door of the 
room where she was, but she might as well shut it out. 
However, on the way she stopped, arrested by the mention 
of her own name. 

“Violet?” she heard. “Oh, of course not! She won’t 
expect it. You can’t make two tickets into three, she’ll 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


231 


understand, won’t mind a bit. — Heavens ! ” — there was sud- 
den consternation in the voice — “ I’ve promised to take her 
to a dance to-night ! ” 

Violet closed her door. But the closing of one door did 
not shut out the sound of Maud’s voice when, as now, she 
was intent on the matter in hand; through the door or 
through the thin partition wall Violet could still hear the 
greater part of what was said. 

“ What is to be done ? ” she heard, and then — “ Can’t — 
I don’t see how I can. It’s simply vile! Awful rotten 
show, too, that Vane-Morton woman; but Violet’s set on 
going — doesn’t know any better, poor child ! ” 

Violet stood by her dressing-table. She was nearly cer- 
tain Maud was speaking to Ingram. She had not seen him 
since they came to Town and, so far as Violet knew, not 
heard from him either. There was nothing to indicate that 
the person on the telephone was he, except her voice; but 
this convinced Violet, though she did not know how. She 
shifted the things on the table before her uneasily, recalling 
again what Mina had said. Her instinct was to go out and 
tell Maud she would not go to the dance. She would far 
rather give up that or anything else than be taken to it 
under those circumstances and at the expense of Maud’s 
pleasure — great pleasure evidently. But she hesitated. If 
this were Ingram, if the pleasure lay with him, and her giv- 
ing up the dance meant the throwing of him and Maud in- 
timately together — ought she to do it? She did not know 
what to do. 

Apparently the two at the telephone were not able to de- 
cide either, though it was evident that they had not given up 
all idea of arranging things to their satisfaction. What In- 
gram said Violet naturally did not know. What Maud said 
she did not all hear, for a little Maud’s voice was lower, de- 
pressed, like her spirits, by disappointment. 

“ Can’t send her alone,” she heard — “ not to that place 


232 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


No, I don’t know anyone who’s going, who’d do to take her. 
Not time to wire Ted and get him here. Rough on him to 
have to go if there was. I don’t know that I’d do it,” and 
so on in lower tones. 

Then suddenly the voice rose. “ Sam ! ” it cried trium- 
phantly. And then, after a pause, devoted to listening, 
though possibly not attending, it repeated the name. “ Yes, 
I said Sam. He’s our man; he’ll do the trick. The hen 
college, or whatever it is, is only a short run from Town ; 
he can get in in time. I’ll wire him right away. He’s as 
good as an uncle to Violet any day ; we’ll make him one for 
the time being. I’ll tell the Vane-Morton woman he is, and 
we’ll send them off the pink of propriety — Mrs. Grundy 
satisfied, Violet satisfied, I satisfied, you satisfied, all parties 
satisfied ! ” 

Violet’s mouth shut tight. Catching sight of her reflec- 
tion unexpectedly, her own face in the glass startled her. 
She turned away quickly; but her expression did not alter. 
Go to the dance ? She would as soon go to the moon ! 
Nothing, nothing whatever, would induce her to go to it 
now ! 

But it was useless to tell Maud so. It was always use- 
less to oppose plans of Maud’s making or to point out any 
flaws in them ; she never perceived the flaws or succumbed 
to the opposition; never properly realized the existence of 
either even in the other person’s mind in her enthusiasm for 
her own arrangement. Besides, in this case it was impos- 
sible ! It was impossible to speak of it at all to anyone for 
anything; Violet did not know why, but she did know that. 

With burning eyes and set lips she turned from the dress- 
ing-table, and drew the curtains of her window. She lis- 
tened a moment till she heard Maud leave the telephone, 
then rang for the maid and, climbing upon the bed, lay 
down with her face from the light. 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


233 


When the maid came she sent her to Maud with a request 
for smelling salts and antikamnia. 

Maud, who was writing a telegram, immediately drew the 
intended inference of a sudden headache. She left the tele- 
gram unfinished and came herself, bringing the required 
things to Violet’s bedside, full of sympathy and eager to 
do all she could. She was not surprised at the headache, 
the day had been hot and the afternoon at the dressmaker’s 
tiring (to her, she had been fitted; Violet had merely looked 
on, but she forgot that). She herself sometimes had sud- 
den attacks of headache; that Violet never did, did not oc- 
cur to her now. She was no deceiver herself, saying and 
doing what she wanted as frankly and heedlessly as a child ; 
it did not occur to her that another might not, or could not 
do so. She quite believed in the headache, suggested reme- 
dies sympathetically, and was kindness itself. She was 
most sincerely sorry when Violet spoke of giving up the idea 
of going to the dance, and assured her she would be better 
after a rest — that she had much better not think of giving 
up. 

Violet’s conscience smote her; Maud was so kind, so 
really concerned, and so easily deceived; but she persisted 
none the less. Not for Maud, not for conscience, not for 
anything on earth would she have Sam take her to the 
dance — Sam, tired with his day’s work, in indifferent health, 
brought to London and kept up to a late hour in a bad at- 
mosphere with people he neither knew nor liked; Sam, 
against his will, playing escort to her, made uncle to her! 
Never ! She could not say so ; she could not say it to any- 
one, least of all to Maud, who would never understand and 
certainly not give way. There was nothing for it but to 
pretend — so pretend she did, unhappily but efficiently, and 
quite unrepentant, in spite of Maud’s kindness and solici- 
tude on her behalf. 


234 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 

She did not repent even later when Maud and Ingram 
had gone to some special performance, for which he had 
had the fortune to secure tickets, and she in solitude had 
time to think it over and to think about them and her un- 
easiness on their account. She did speculate once whether, 
if she had pretended to recover too late to send for Sam, 
Maud could have been induced to give up the other engage- 
ment and take her to the dance. Her previous experience 
told her that it was most unlikely, although Maud would 
have wished — and thought she did — what was pleasantest 
for everybody. But for a little she was unhappy about it, 
though she felt she never could have done such a thing. 
She shrank from the meanness and the smallness of the 
whole proceeding. She wished none of it had been neces- 
sary, that all could have been clear and straight. She felt 
there was something wrong somewhere; that she herself 
was wrong, and all was wrong. 

She was in the little sitting-room now. She had had 
a light dinner there a while after Ingram and Maud started. 
Maud had suggested perhaps she would feel well enough to 
eat something by-an-by, and she had thought there was no 
harm in admitting recovery to that extent when there was 
no one there to suffer or profit by it, more especially as by 
then the enforced idleness and confinement of her darkened 
room was irksome to her troubled mind. So she had the 
light dinner, and afterwards sat by the open window with a 
paper. 

She was sitting there when Graham Burbidge, acting on 
Maud’s permission to call late, came. Violet received him, 
because when the servant came to ask her if she could see 
anybody, she, forgetting she was supposed to be indisposed, 
said “ Yes ” according to her truthful wont. However, her 
own thoughts had made her look sufficiently tired and 
heavy-eyed to pass for a convalescent invalid with Burbidge 
— a tolerant critic of convenient feminine ailments. He 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


235 


asked solicitously after her health, thanked her for receiv- 
ing him, and promised not to tire her. 

“ I’m not ill,” she assured him, “ I’m not really, only 
rather tired and- ” 

“ A little worried ? ” he suggested, as she hesitated over 
the headache story. 

“ Yes,” she said, surprised, in her ignorance, that he 
should have perceived what, after all, was very obvious. 
“ I’m a little bit worried.” 

“ I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “ Command me, if I 
can be of any service.” 

She thanked him. She thought it very kind of him to 
offer. “ But there isn’t anything anyone can do,” she said. 
“ I can’t exactly explain about it, but there isn’t. I dare say 
there isn’t a great deal the matter really — nothing I need 
bother over, I expect.” 

“ Take my advice and don’t bother,” he recommended. 
“ Nothing is worth a pucker on your brow, certainly no one 
is. I should have pleasure in telling him so, whoever he 
is.” 

“ It isn’t ‘ he Violet said, laughing a little ; “ it’s my- 
self, partly, I think. Sometimes,” she added rather wist- 
fully, “ it seems everything is wrong, and one is all wrong 
oneself, as if one felt wrong and did wrong and kept on do- 
ing it.” 

He agreed that was a bad state of affairs. “ Though,” 
he said, “ I beg leave to doubt if your sins would make 
many angels weep.” 

“ Oh, but they would,” Violet protested. “ I’m bad — 
sometimes very bad — and I’m getting worse, I think, and 
no real help to — to anyone.” 

“ I should let anyone take care of him — themselves,” 
Burbidge advised. “ They usually can very well.” 

“ Do you think so? ” she asked doubtfully. “ Sometimes 
it seems as if they can’t. I’m rather worried ” 


236 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


She broke off without saying concerning whom and what 
she was worried, and began to speak more generally. But 
though she did not say anything particular or personal, she 
yet unconsciously conveyed the undefined feeling of wrong 
and things amiss which oppressed her, and also her sense of 
responsibility for those with whom she came in contact. 

Burbidge listened, and bore a becoming part in this, for 
him, novel conversation — a little amused but respectful too. 
Wise men of experience are respectful at the veiled shrine 
of a faith even that they have outgrown or never personally 
known. 

“ I’m afraid you are doomed to trouble, Miss Yarbor- 
ough,” he said at last. “ You are of that little band of 
women who adopt the world’s sorrows and try to atone for 
its sins and dry its tears. Quite useless, quite hopeless; 
but the world has reason to be grateful for you all the 
same.” 

He stooped to pick up the paper which had slipped from 
her lap. It was an evening paper Ingram had brought with 
him when he came to fetch Maud. Violet had found it ly- 
ing on the table. It was folded now at the page of finan- 
cial news, which she had been reading when Burbidge came 
in. 

“ Are you interested in finance ? ” he asked, in some sur- 
prise. 

“ I don’t know anything about it,” she answered. “ I was 
looking at that, because I saw the piece in the middle of the 
page about the Central African Gold Syndicate.” 

“ Are you interested in that ? ” he inquired. 

She nodded. “ At least,” she said, “ I’m very glad if 
what the paper says is true, and it is going to pay. I sup- 
pose that’s what it does mean ? ” 

He glanced at the column and assured her that was so; 
further adding: “ It is going to pay more than that. I 
should not be surprised if it pays a hundred per cent, in the 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


237 

course of time, and not a very great time either. No, that 
is not mentioned in the paper. It is what one might call 
private information, but quite reliable — on the best author- 
ity, in fact.” 

“ I’m glad,” she said. She had a rather vague idea what 
paying a hundred per cent, might represent in this case, but 
she understood that it was something good — better even 
than the optimistic if somewhat incomprehensible expres- 
sions in the paper. “ When that happens,” she said, “ I 
suppose anyone who has invested in the Syndicate, as Sam 
— Mr. Bailey — has, will have a lot of money ? ” 

A lot of money is a relative term, and to the man who 
dealt in millions, Sam’s modest holding would hardly, under 
the most favourable circumstances, stand for that. But 
there was one asset of Sam’s which he was not inclined to 
discount — that was the interest of the girl with the white 
brow and the true eyes of unsullied youth. 

“ He will have more money than he has now,” he said — 
“ a good deal more if he profits by his opportunities. 
Though I don’t know that he is to be pitied now.” 

“ Of course not! ” she said. “ He doesn’t think so him- 
self, I know ; he doesn’t mind about money. But he thought 
the Syndicate was never going to pay much. He will be 
very glad to find it is.” 

“ If he had not been an unbeliever he might have had that 
satisfaction some time ago,” Burbidge remarked. “ I told 
him it was all right.” 

“ Did you know before the paper? ” Violet asked. 

“ Some while before — I might, perhaps, say when the 
Syndicate was formed. At all events I knew there was 
gold, and that the Syndicate, being formed for the purpose 
of paying — which, I may tell you in confidence, all Syndi- 
cates are not — would pay so soon as the gold was located. 
It might take time to do that. It did — longer than was ex- 
pected. There were unusual difficulties in the way.” 


238 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ Are you sure they have got the gold now ? ” Violet in- 
quired anxiously. 

“ Quite sure. I will bring you a sample one day if you 
will allow me.” He took out a note-book to make a note to 
do so. “ The god who sits on the gold in the bowels of the 
earth has been circumvented at last, or rather his worship- 
pers on the surface have been, which is the same thing, but 
perhaps more to the purpose.” 

“ Is there a god ? ” she asked, with interest “ A 

heathen god they worship in the part of Africa where the 
gold is ? ” 

“ They worship and have worshipped him since the days 
of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba,” Burbidge told her. 
“ So I am informed by travellers. There has been a tra- 
dition of gold thereabouts for very long, and the tradition 
much mixed with a deity and a worship about which the 
votaries were wise enough to be reticent. There have been 
several attempts to find the gold, but they all came to noth- 
ing — frustrated by the wrath of the god or the machinations 
of his worshippers. They were, I must admit, attempts 
more of the nature of treasure hunts or adventures than 
business undertakings, with competent engineers, and a 
capable assayer. It’s a prosaic fact, but a fact, that science, 
sense, and sufficient capital are as necessary for successful 
mining for gold under diabolic protection, as for mining for 
tin under licence of the Duchy of Cornwall.” 

Violet nodded. “ Of course the heathen god is not any- 
thing real,” she said. “ He couldn’t really diabolically pro- 
tect or count for anything.” 

“ Oh, excuse me,” Burbidge corrected. “ He counted 
for a good deal, and accounted for a good deal too ; among 
other things, for most of the time, when your friend Mr. 
Bailey and your friend my humble self, got no return for 
money invested. The worship of the troublesome deity still 
goes very strong in his particular part of Africa, and his 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


239 


votaries are as devout as ever, and as set as ever on keep- 
ing affairs to themselves. They had no notion of letting 
the white men into their secrets, or the mining engineers 
into the haunts of their god. They never mined, as we 
understand mining, but they have been able to get gold, and 
they knew by this time that we could get it, and get a great 
deal more than they if once we knew where to begin ; and 
they did not mean us to if they could prevent it, for super- 
natural reasons, not commercial ones. Had their objec- 
tion been commercial it should have been possible to ne- 
gotiate; as it was, it was not. Their method was princi- 
pally to sit tight and say nothing, with the addition of a 
little ingenious murder now and then. It was extremely 
successful for very many years.” 

“ But now the Syndicate has found the gold ? ” 

“ Now we have found it.” 

“ On land belonging to you ? ” 

“ Belonging to us, or the find would not be any use to us. 
One has to pay beforehand in this business — what in mining 
stories is called 4 staking your claim ’ in the dark, on the ad- 
vice of an expert, who is not always a truthful person, or 
on your own opinion, or more usually on the off chance that 
gold may be there.” 

“ I see,” Violet said. “ You buy, or kind of buy, a piece 
of land as big as you can afford, where you think gold may 
may be, and look all over it? The Syndicate must have a 
very big piece for it to have taken so long before the right 
place was found. It is a good thing it happened to be in 
their piece in the end.” 

“ It was not in the land first acquired,” Burbidge said. 
“ That was valueless. The natives saw to it that we did not 
get hold of anything good. They were astonishingly clever 
in diverting interest from the part they were set on guard- 
ing. Their diplomacy is more cunning and less crude than 
one would expect; much less crude than their notion of 


240 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


making trouble, though that is not inefficient. You would 
hardly believe what our people had to go through — dif- 
ficulties of food, transport, water, disease, raids, riots — all 
manner of things which had much the look of nature or 
accident, but were actually nothing of the kind, nothing but 
racial prejudice. Bailey was of great service to the Syndi- 
cate. He has a faculty for winning the good-will of the 
natives and smoothing away prejudice. I am told he under- 
stands the black unusually well. 

“ Did he help to get the land where the gold is ? ” Violet 
asked. 

He had not. “ As a matter of fact,” Burbidge said, “ the 
great deposit has turned out to be on the last secured con- 
cession, in a district rather away from the rest, and not be- 
fore regarded as promising. It was secured really more on 
chance than anything else ; not till after Bailey had left for 
home.” 

“ I’m glad,” Violet said. 

“ Why ? ” Burbidge asked. 

She hesitated. Then — “ Of course, it had to be,” she 
said ; “ and of course, it was quite fair. You bought the 

land ; you had a right to ; only Only it seems hard on 

the people who have always been there — the natives who 
wanted to keep it sacred.” 

“ Sacred to the worship of a heathen god ? My dear 
young lady, I assure you, by all accounts he was not at 
all a nice god, and his worship not at all a nice worship. 
Though, apart from that, don’t you think the gold is bet- 
ter in circulation — buying pretty things, paying men for 
honest work, and so on — than lying idle in the earth, to the 
doubtful honour of this more than doubtful deity, on ac- 
count of an old and foolish superstition ? ” 

“ Yes,” she said, colouring a little — “ yes, of course, I 
know it is quite right. It’s like an old family that has been 
for generations in one place, owning the land and the houses 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


241 


and everything. It’s quite right they should go when they 
are no use, and can’t do anything for anyone. They ought 
to go and make room for a new people with money and 
brains able to do things. It’s right they should, and much 
better, only — it’s their home.” 

She raised her eyes, and Burbidge suddenly knew why 
Sam had bought the useless house of Countershell. 

“ That is very sad,” he said sympathetically, “ but I don’t 
think one need regard the blacks and the gold as quite a 
parallel.” 

“ It seems rather the same to me,” she said. “ That’s 
why I am glad Sam did not have to help arrange it. He 
would not have liked doing it, though he would have known 
it was quite right and fair, and really better for the natives 
themselves in the long run. They’ll be better off working 
under your people and being looked after by them than in 
the power of the priests of the heathen god. Only just at 
first they won’t realize it, and perhaps the priests never will. 
One can’t help being sorry for the priests.” 

She spoke a little wistfully, though at the same time anx- 
ious lest her words should give offence. She half apolo- 
gized for them, saying that very likely she was all wrong. 

“ On the contrary,” Burbidge said, “ I am sure you are 
right.” 

He rose to go. “ I think you are very right,” he said, as 
he took her hand with respect (not respect for her knowl- 
edge, but for something he had come across much less sel- 
dom). 

He did not send her the little specimen of gold which he 
had promised ; he sent her a sheaf of white lilies instead. 

Maud was rather interested in the sending of the lilies. 
She was sorry when she heard Burbidge had been while she 
was out, though, when the lilies came, she said Violet must 
have filled her place satisfactorily to have secured that testi- 
monial. 


242 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ We must ask Mr. Burbidge to dine,” she said. “ We’ll 
stay in Town over Sunday and book him for Monday night. 
Ted’s got some idea he ought to come up on business that 
day. He’ll come like a bird to meet the Golden Burbidge. 
I’ll tell Cecil to come too.” 

Of course Ingram was to be in it. Violet, though she 
hated herself for it, expected that. There had been no idea 
of remaining longer in Town till Maud saw him last night. 
Before that she had insisted they must return home on Sat- 
urday ; as frankly bored with the idea of Sunday in Town as 
she was frankly pleased with it when she had seen Ingram ; 
and he, without doubt, had asked if he might come then. 
There was an un-selfconsciousness about Maud and her 
doings which made Violet feel that she herself was wrong, 
and silly to question or dislike them. On the present occa- 
sion, however, she struggled to hold on to her first feeling, 
and even brought herself to suggest that Sam should be 
asked on Monday in place of Ingram. Suitability as well 
as other things seemed to her to demand that he should. 

“Sam?” Maud said. “I never thought of him. We 
might ask him too.” 

Violet knew from her tone that she would not do it. 
She knew it, though Maud herself did not. Maud, no 
doubt, believed she was really considering the matter when 
she canvassed the chances of Sam’s being able to come and 
the desirability of his joining the party. Violet knew bet- 
ter, and for the moment she lost the sense of being in the 
wrong. While she waited for Maud to find out the point 
on which Sam would be dismissed, she hated her and her 
self-deception and its results with a simple primitive hatred 
which afterwards made her ashamed. 

Sam was dismissed on two points. “ It was a shame to 
drag him up to Town merely to dine — not in the least worth 
his while to come for that” (Maud had forgotten, really 
and completely, that she had thought of bringing him up to 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


243 


Town to fill her place of chaperone). And, “ it would be 
rather awkward, too. He would make a man too many at 
the table — an arrangement,” she said, “which would not 
find favour with Mr. Burbidge. He's the kind of man, I’m 
sure, who likes a pretty woman beside him at dinner, es- 
pecially if she can amuse him. I shall ask Susan Gains- 
worth. She’ll be up to the neck in engagements, but she’ll 
cut them and come for him.” 

Susan Gainsworth did, and Lassiter did, and Cecil In- 
gram did. They all did as Maud said, and came on Mon- 
day night, when Graham Burbidge came to dine. Violet, 
feeling vaguely unhappy, and at odds with her surround- 
ings, did not want to make one of the party. She would 
much rather have gone to spend the evening with her Aunt 
Lilia in Bedford Park, as she had been asked to do, or even 
have gone to bed if that had been allowed. The people 
were, if possible, more emphatically “ Maud’s people ” 
than usual, and the occasion one on which she herself would 
feel more than usually strange. She wished she could 
have avoided it, but she could not, so she put on her white 
dress, restored again to its original condition, and came 
down. 

At table she sat between Lassiter and Ingram. The lat- 
ter addressed a few remarks to her from time to time, and 
listened politely to what she said ; but, enlightened by what 
Mina had told her, she perceived that his real attention was 
given to Maud, his mind really completely absorbed by her. 
Lassiter, on her other side, was totally unconscious of it — 
as unconscious as he appeared to be of her own presence. 
His attention was divided between Susan Gainsworth, a 
handsome and witty woman with an audacious nose and a 
still more audacious dress, and Burbidge, the guest of the 
evening. Burbidge himself, Violet concluded, saw noth- 
ing either — there was nothing here to interest him. He ac- 
cepted the attention paid him with well-bred ease, answered 


244 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


Maud’s gay talk and Susan Gainsworth’s wit gallantly, and 
bore an able part in the conversation in which she herself 
had no share. After dinner, however, he came and talked 
to her. When the three men joined the ladies she was sit- 
ting a little apart doing some embroidery and not listening 
much to the talk of Maud and Susan Gainsworth. Bur- 
bidge came to her and placed himself beside her, rather 
between her and the others. And, though the room and 
the company were too small to allow of any personal or 
exclusive conversation, he maintained the position until he 
left, which was at an early hour, as he had another engage- 
ment to keep. 

“ Beyond doubt you have made an impression ! ” Maud 
said the next morning. “ It is amazing, but it is so. Fe- 
licitations, my little one — or big one! You are a big one — 
that’s what makes it more amazing.” 

“ What?” Violet asked. 

“ The attention of the Golden Burbidge. My dear 
child, don’t look so flabbergasted ! You’ll ruin your mouth ; 
it’s much too big already. You mean to say you didn’t 
perceive the attentions ? ” 

She laughed amusedly, and when Violet asked if she 
meant the lilies, she said : “ Bless your heart ! No ! Any 

man may send any flowers to any woman, it’s nothing — an 
accident of conversation, a convention ; in this case a pretty 
and becoming tribute to la jeune iille — but to devote ex- 
clusive, or nearly exclusive, attention to nineteen — and five 
foot eight of that — when he might have been entertained 
by Susan Gainsworth, he must be smitten ! ” 

“ He’s not!” Violet said. “You’re quite wrong; he 
only talked to me from kindness and politeness. He saw I 
was— I was a little bit out of it; that is the only reason 
why he came to talk to me.” 

Maud regarded her flushed face with amazed amuse- 
ment. “ You are too good for this world,” she said, shak- 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


245 


in g her head. “ Sad, but true — you are ! ” Then, as the 
thought occurred to her, she added : “ Besides, you 
weren’t out of it . 4 What do you mean? Why on earth 
should he think you were ? ” 

Violet could not explain, and fortunately Maud did not 
press her, another idea occurring to her just then. 

“ I shall ask Mr. Burbidge to come to Grange Hall,” she 
announced, “ so that he may have an opportunity of con- 
tinuing his politeness, if that’s what you prefer calling it.” 
“ No!” Violet cried. 

“ I shall,” Maud retorted. “ Why not ? ” 

“ Of course there’s no reason why not,” Violet answered. 
“ There’s no reason why you shouldn’t ask him or anyone 
you like. I don’t mean that ; I meant — oh, Maud, it’s hor- 
rid to talk like that! To think ” 

“ To think you have caught the attention of a man of 
five-and-fifty ? I don’t see anything horrid in it. I 
shouldn’t have thought there was either, unless one had 
rather a nasty mind ; but I dare say I’m wrong there. Any- 
how, there’s nothing very unusual in it. Young girls do 
catch the fancy of men of that age, sometimes even that 
type; though, usually, I own, the type want rather more 
beauty than you have, poor dear. But, horrid or not, the 
fact’s there, so you’ll have to put up with it.” 

Violet did not agree. She was quite sure there was no 
such fact. 

But Maud only laughed. “ Don’t tear your hair,” she 
said. “ I’m not proposing you should marry the man, or 
suggesting that he’s likely to ever propose it either — 
though you might do worse than accept him if he did. 
He’s as rich as Croesus and a clever devil. Not half a bad 
sort, I should think. Fifty times the gentleman his brother 
is. Still, I don’t know that I’d advise it ; marriage is a lot- 
tery, I’d be the last to push anyone into it. I certainly 
would not drive you to marrying any man against your in- 


246 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


clinations. Don’t think that in asking Burbidge I’ve got 
that in my mind, my child. I haven’t. I merely wanted to 
get you a little amusement by the way, and him too.” 

She stretched out a kind hand, and Violet felt grateful 
for it, though, as often with Maud, bewildered too. 

She did manage to protest that she did not want amuse- 
ment, but Maud persisted in saying she should ask Bur- 
bidge to Grange Hall. 

“Not this week-end,” she said; “Cecil Ingram is com- 
ing — but soon.” 

Violet made no reply. The mention of Ingram’s name 
brought him and her former uneasiness unpleasantly before 
her mind. She sat silent a moment; then, gathering her 
courage, she spoke. 

“ Maud,” she said shyly, “ do you think — are you sure, 
Mr. Ingram had better come ? ” 

“What’s the matter with his coming?” Maud asked. 
“ Are you afraid he’ll pay attention to you too, or that 
someone will say he is ? ” 

“ No,” Violet answered, “ of course not ; you know that. 
It’s — it’s you.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” Maud’s voice had lost its ban- 
tering tone and suddenly become cold and curt with a cer- 
tain imperiousness in its demand. It rather frightened 
Violet; she could not have told why, for she was more 
afraid for herself of Maud’s laughter than her rare and 
passing anger. But, having compelled herself to the 
dreaded and disliked task of speech, she determined to go 
on. 

“ I mean,” she said awkwardly, “ he’s very fond of you 
— awfully fond. I don’t mean he ought not to be, only — 
it hurts so to care — it hardly seems fair. Oh, I can’t ex- 
plain ! It sounds as if I meant you were doing wrong, and 
I don’t ! ” 

“ I am glad of that,” Maud said dryly. 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


247 


Violet twisted her fingers nervously on one another, 
Maud’s fixed regard embarrassing her to silence. “ Pray 
what do you mean?” Maud inquired. “That Cecil In- 
gram is fond of me, and for that reason should not come 
to see me ? I can’t say that seems to me a reason ; on the 
contrary, it strikes me as a very good reason for his com- 
ing. If a person likes one they naturally like seeing one. 
Why on earth one should refuse them that pleasure I fail 
to see. If you like to mortify your own flesh and deny 
yourself pleasures, there is no reason why you shouldn’t 
do it. But when it comes to denying other people I, per- 
sonally, don’t consider one has any business to do so. If 
I thought the cheap treat of seeing me gave any pleasure 
or satisfaction to anyone I should make a point of letting 
him have it, even if he bored me a good deal. What busy- 
bodies might say, if they did please to say anything, cer- 
tainly would not deter me.” 

“ No,” Violet said, the bewildered feeling coming over 
her again ; though through it, and through the sensation of 
seeming wrong, her original feeling about Ingram was still 
with her. “ You wouldn’t do anything that was not kind,” 
she said, “ that you didn’t think right.” 

“ Thank you,” Maud said, and Violet flushed vividly. 

“ I didn’t mean that ! ” she protested. " I didn’t mean to 
criticize you! Indeed I didn’t! It sounds horrid. I’ve 
said it all wrong somehow ! ” 

She was covered with confusion; but though she apolo- 
gized she still clung to her point. “ I am certain he does 
care very much,” she said; “you don’t see it, of course, 
you don’t know, but I am afraid he does.” 

“ My dear child,” Maud said kindly, “ I know one thing 
you appear not to, that is, that men don’t break their necks 
about women whatever they may say, and story books may 
say on the subject. Don’t look so distressed. I under- 
stand what you mean. No, I’m not offended. Why 


248 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


should I be? I’m sure you meant well — the best. You 
happen to be all wrong in your deductions, but that’s not 
your fault, poor dear. I ought not to have sent you to that 
ridiculous German school ; you imbibed such a weird col- 
lection of ideas there! Don’t worry your head any more 
about what you clearly don’t understand, and, if I may say 
it, what does not concern you. I can assure you, if it is 
any comfort to you, that there is no more chance of me 
leaving home and husband, in the style of the novelette, 
and eloping with Cecil Ingram, than that you will.” 

“ Of course not ! ” Violet cried. “ You don’t think I 
meant that ? I never thought of such a thing ! ” 

“ That’s all right,” Maud said, “ for I didn’t and shan’t ; 
nor he either. We all seem agreed on that point, which is 
a comfort, as it seems the principle, in fact, the only im- 
portant one. That being cleared up, are you satisfied, or 
is there anything more I can tell you ? ” 

There was not; Violet knew that. She felt Maud had 
treated her with a patience she would have received from 
few to whom she might have ventured to speak as she had. 
But she was not satisfied, nothing was really better, her 
own conviction was unshaken. The only thing which was 
shaken was her original belief that Maud was totally blind 
to Ingram’s feelings. It seemed to her now that Maud had 
some idea of them, but saw them in another light from 
which she (and Mina) did. Maud might be right; she cer- 
tainly knew much more of the world and of men than they 
did. Violet owned that to herself; but she could not for- 
get Maud’s faculty for seeing only what she wanted to see, 
for losing sight of objects — all sorts, big and little — in the 
pursuit of some present pleasure. The situation did not 
seem to her in any way clearer ; but there was no more to 
be said about it. Maud dismissed the subject and turned 
to her correspondence now, and it was never mentioned 
again. By mutual, though unspoken, consent they avoided 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


249 


it. Indeed, from that time forward, Maud was more care- 
ful and reticent altogether with Violet; less because she 
resented what she had said than because she felt her as an 
uncongenial, disapproving atmosphere. An increased re- 
straint grew up between them — unconscious on Maud’s 
part, regretted but unable to be altered on Violet’s. 

Ingram did not come to Grange Hall for the week-end 
Maud had mentioned; some family business called him to 
another part of England. Maud told Violet he was not 
coming, adding, in a tone half bantering, half sarcastic, that 
no doubt she would be relieved to hear it. 

Violet was not very much relieved. She knew he would 
come next week if it were possible. He did, though not 
till Saturday. He was unable to get away before, and at 
first said he should not be able to do so then. In conse- 
quence of the refusal Maud had invited Graham Burbidge, 
more at the suggestion of Lassiter, who wished to continue 
the acquaintance, than with any thought of Violet and the 
fancied attention. By that time she had largely forgotten 
her ideas on the subject. Certainly, when Burbidge came, 
all recollection of them and the consequent possibility that 
he might wish to have more of Violet’s company had 
slipped from her. She entertained him herself with the 
whole-heartedness, at once so attractive and so exclusive 
of everything else, which was peculiar to her. This until 
Ingram came on Saturday evening, when her attention was 
more divided. 

Violet did not mind being left out. She was glad of it if 
it entailed Maud dividing herself between the two guests 
instead of being absorbed in one (Ingram). She certainly 
preferred it to being thrown in Burbidge’s way, though she 
was too sure she was right and Maud wrong to feel self- 
conscious when she was with him. She did see some little 
of him during the visit. He seemed interested to talk to 
her, leading her to speak of her old life at Countershell, 


250 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


and of her father and Sam. A good deal of Sam — more, 
perhaps, than she was aware ; but it was good to be able to 
talk to someone of him as he really was. And Burbidge 
showed himself sympathetic and interested in that and 
other things — even such things as her thoughts and opin- 
ions on various impersonal subjects. She did not speak 
of life at Grange Hall except in relation to Jack, and 
avoided so much as mentioning Ingram’s name, even when 
he was in the house; instinctively shrinking from it as if 
she feared by speaking to draw attention to what she 
wanted to think was not there to see. 

Burbidge did not talk of Ingram either, and only once of 
Maud. That was on the Sunday afternoon, when he and 
the others had come back from motoring somewhere, Maud 
full of enthusiasm for the pleasure they had had. 

“ It’s a shame you weren’t there ! ” she said to Violet, 
who had been out with Jack at the time the idea was sug- 
gested, and had not returned when, almost directly after, 
the start was made. “ I do wish you’d been with us. You 
would have enjoyed it ! ” 

Violet agreed that she would, and Burbidge looked after 
Maud as, with Lassiter and Ingram, she went into the house 
to get a drink. “ Lady Lassiter reminds me of a story 
Rabelais tells,” he said. “ You haven’t read Rabelais? 
No, I suppose not. It is many years since I have. The 
story is of a cook-shop man, who sought payment from a 
poor fellow who ate his bread in the savoury steam from 
the shop window. The cook held the smell added relish to 
the bread and should be paid for; and, the other disagree- 
ing, a fool — it was Chicot himself, if I remember right — 
was called to judgment. He rang a coin on the window- 
ledge and declared the debt discharged, as the sound of 
money was sufficient payment for the smell of food. I 
fancy Providence — I hope you believe in Providence? — I 
fancy it will not be behind the fool in judgment on those 


VIOLET IN TOWN 


251 


pleasant people who enjoy the pleasures of beneficence with- 
out its pains ; who ‘ wish you had been there ’ when they 
had anything agreeable, but take no effectual steps to bring 
you to a share, and kindred costless alms of breath. If 
there is a Providence concerned in the affairs of this world 
one fancies it may reserve a draughty corner for these airy 
philanthropists.” 

“ Oh, but ! ” Violet protested — “ it wasn’t Maud’s fault I 
did not go this afternoon ! You don’t think that she gives 
costless things? She doesn’t. She’s very generous.” 

“ I am sure of it,” Burbidge said blandly ; “ Lady Lassiter 
is a most charming lady — as kind as she is fair. And when 
one adds to her kind heart and lovely face the fact that she 
is excellent company, one says no more than the truth, and 
has a rare and valuable combination of charms.” 

“Don’t you like her?” Violet said, surprised into em- 
barrassing directness. 

Burbidge was not embarrassed. “ I think her the most 

charming woman of my acquaintance,” he said, “ but ” 

He looked at the girl with a little softening in his hard eyes. 
“ Had I a son, she is not the one here I should have wished 
Jiim to marry.” 


CHAPTER XIV 
GRAHAM BURBIDGE AGAIN 

T OWARDS the end of the summer, Sam began work 
with Algernon Burbidge. He found him very unlike 
the other brothers — more unlike on close acquaintance than 
he had even thought in his preliminary interview. He 
shared one characteristic with the younger two, besides 
family affection which appeared to be strong in all — that 
was energetic and industrious application to work. In his 
case this had not brought about any very good results. The 
poultry farm was little credit to him when Sam went to it, 
but a muddle, productive alike of expense and trouble, and 
a failure even as a hobby, since only anxiety was derived 
from it. It was overloaded with complicated and expen- 
sive appliances, though that was less the owner’s fault than 
Graham Burbidge’s. At the outset he had told his secre- 
tary to consult an expert on poultry rearing and order all 
that was necessary; and later told Algernon to order any- 
thing more he wanted, or other people said he did; and 
later still, when he gathered that the farm was not giving 
satisfaction, himself ordered yet more still. In accordance 
with the same plan of liberal expenditure and saving labour 
to the owner, the place had originally been as over-staffed 
as over-loaded ; but by the time Sam came that was altered. 
Algernon, to cut down expenses, had dismissed all assist- 
ance except one elderly man when he realized the deficit 
Graham had casually mentioned to Sam. 

The deficit was not a trivial matter for casual mention 
to Algernon. He wanted to make the farm show a profit ; 
he felt he must do so to justify it and his existence. To 

252 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE AGAIN 


253 


Graham the thing was a toy, a pastime for his brother’s old 
age. He did not mind in the least if it cost two or three 
hundred a year. He would as willingly have spent the 
money that way as paid it to his brother as an annuity if 
he preferred thus increasing his comfort in a peaceful and 
cultivated leisure. But to Algernon it was not a pastime, it 
was a serious business; and he had enough of the family 
feeling for business to set the making it pay in the light of 
a matter of vital importance, the achievement of which 
alone would make him happy. 

“ It isn’t silver-plated turkey coops and patent automatic 
sliding-bottom feeding troughs he wants,” Sam told Gra- 
ham Burbidge, when he had been there a short time. “ It 
isn’t that he hasn’t enough to make him happy with his 
farm ; it’s rather that he has too much. He’s distressed be- 
cause he can’t show interest on so much capital invested by 
you. He’s a man of business, ungrown-up — a sort of child 
at it. Though it’s my experience most children want their 
play real. The farm’s real to him. He wants to be able to 
get out a balance sheet with credit on the right side.” 

“ Well, get one out,” Burbidge said ; “ fake it — though I 
warn you, you’ll have to look out how you do it. He has a 
head for figures ; it’s mostly run to mathematics, I own, but 
he surprises you with sudden flashes of money sense some- 
times.” 

The mathematics Sam found to be correct. Algernon 
Burbidge had, for most of his life, been mathematical 
master at one of the lesser public schools, and had in earlier 
years devoted his leisure to unremunerative work in con- 
nection with the science. Though he had retired now he 
still kept his interest in the subject, and several other purely 
intellectual ones. Concerning the mathematics, there was 
no doubt; concerning the occasional money sense, Sam 
would have been more doubtful had he had it on any less 
authority than that of the financier. Though, whatever his 


254 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


own opinion, he would not have attempted to deceive Al- 
gernon as to the balance sheet or anything else — as soon at- 
tempt to deceive Violet as the elderly mathematician with 
the slide rule protruding from his waistcoat pocket and the 
honest earnest eyes which reminded Sam of her! He 
would satisfy him without that, he decided ; if not by show- 
ing a profit — he was not sure of his ability there — then some 
other way. He was not unfitted for the task he had under- 
taken. He had qualifications for patching up what was 
broken, reducing things to order, and making them run 
without loss of money or the master’s shaken self-respect. 

"I have got the job I am cut out for ” (he wrote to 
Violet), “ I was designed to be a patcher up of uncon- 
sidered trifles , and a handy chap for other fellows to meas- 
ure themselves by when they want reassuring that there are 
littler men in the world. I always was a comfort to a man 
down in his conceit. I’ve bucked up poor old A. Burbidge 
already. I’ve been patching his hen coops all the morning 
— his late assistants seem to have regarded them as handy 
sources of firewood — the system , a bit from each so the de- 
ficit shan’t strike the eye unduly. I’ve made quite a job of 
some of the coops; rather less, as yet, of the work I was 
at last night and other nights before — i.e., patching up Mr. 
Algernon Burbidge’ s faith in himself as a poultry farmer 
and a man of business. Still, I have hopes. It is, as I say, 
in my line. If he would be content with poultry farm or 
man of business, he might easily achieve to belief ; but both 
the two is flying rather high for a retired mathematician of 
sixty. 

“ You would love him, Jane. He wears carpet slippers, 

and galoshes, and . Oh, Shade of Dandy Graham ! 

White stockings and garters! The garters, he confided ; I 
haven’t seen them. He also confided that he did not wear 
white stockings while he was school-teaching ; they gave 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE AGAIN 


255 


rise to too much levity. He is as simple-minded as a child, 
as absent-minded as a stage savant, and as honest as your- 
self. You don't altogether wonder things are in a bit of a 
muddle, especially when I tell you that Mrs., his wife, knows 
no more of hens than she does of moons, not so much as 
she does of the differential calculus, which is a much older 
friend of the family. She is a kind, clever woman, who, 
in her young days, ought to have been a doctor, but who, in 
her old ones, does not in the least regret she hasn't. She 
would accompany her husband to a kangaroo farm if he de- 
cided to start one; and believe — or persuade him she did — 
that it was the one thing in life he should and ought to re- 
tire to. It is jolly to think that the Burbidges, in spite of 
George's ballroom-o-swimming-bath, and the rest of the 
trophies of gaudy gold, and Graham's hand ( well-mani- 
cured ) on the pulse of the financial world (vide <e Daily 
Mail" feuilleton), to think they have such a couple as this 
to their credit. And jolly to think of me having the luck 
to be poultry man to them — I owe that to Graham. Good 
luck to him! 

“By the way, you will be pleased to hear that Mrs. 
Mathematician has opened her arms to me, not because she 
sees in me the Hope of Hens — in my most swelling mo 
ments I can't persuade myself she believes in me there as 
she does in her husband — but because I had a mild attack 
of fever two days ago. The latent doctor in her rose, and 
the mother, which has lain asleep these several years, did 
likewise. I zvas as a long-lost son to her. She never had a 
son, only two daughters — one a missionary doctor abroad 
somewhere, the other a mathematical teacher somewhere 
else. She is content they should have won what she has 
missed; serenely happy in haznng what, so far, it seems they 
have not got — a husband and the peck of troubles such ani- 
mals bring. 

“Congratulate me, VJ. I congratulate myself every 


256 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


night to have come to such a pleasant backwater to lie up a 
while , and recover from the scars and wounds of adverse 
fortune , and the climate of one of the jewels , not perhaps 
the brightest , in the British Crown.” 

Violet did congratulate him. Her letters were full of 
satisfaction that things had fallen out well with him. They 
did not mention that she was aware he would possibly have 
made a good tale to her, and certainly continued to extract 
some amusement, even if they had fallen out badly. Nor 
did they mention that his accounts were as a breath from a 
simpler, sunnier life than the one she lived. 

She wrote, fairly often, long letters filled with small 
pieces of news, accounts of what she had been doing, an- 
swers to his questions, inquiries about his work, comments 
on what he had written, trivial, unimportant, but intimate 
details such as used to fill her letters when he was in Af- 
rica. They brought her very near to him in some ways, 
and in some made him aware that she was afar off. There 
was a difference, too, between the letters of now and earlier 
times. He felt it, though he could not have said wherein 
it lay or quite what it was. 

“ She is grown up,” he told himself. “ A woman must 
have her reservations ; she were a poor thing without.” 

And he fell to speculating about the great reservation — 
that which it is woman’s instinct to hide till the one man 
concerned demands it. He wondered whether it had en- 
tered into Violet’s life yet; whether it was that which he 
sometimes felt as a veil covering part of her from him now. 
And he tried to get used to the idea, reminding himself he 
had got to do so sooner or later. 

There was nothing in the letters to actually suggest the 
advent of love or a lover. One, written from Bude, told 
how Violet was staying with the Whites, who had taken a 
house there for the holidays, There were accounts of bath- 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE AGAIN 


257 


in g and boating and picnics, remarks on the cousins, the 
not infrequent clash of their characters, and the nature of 
their friends; but nothing to suggest that any one person 
mattered to the writer. Rather she seemed to be more or 
less outside the lively young life she described, enjoying it to 
a certain extent, but as a looker-on more than a true partici- 
pator. 

“ Poor Jane,” said Sam, as he folded that letter; “ she 
had too young the responsibility of a child to really take to 
playing at this age.” And he sighed as he thought of 
Cuddy, the child of the child Violet’s responsibility, and the 
old happy days at Countershell. 

The next letter was written from Grange Hall, where 
Violet had returned, not going to her aunt, Mrs. Percy 
Kingston, at Cromer, as had been intended. It was not 
clear whether this alteration of plans was on account of 
Mrs. Kingston’s health or some arrangement of Maud’s. 
Maud herself was away visiting, and had been for some 
while. Lassiter was with her part of the time, staying with 
friends in Scotland and elsewhere, but coming back to 
Grange Hall about the time of Violet’s return. Maud did 
not come till later ; but when she did there was a good deal 
of company. Sam, counting up the names mentioned in 
Violet’s letters, came to the conclusion that Maud must be 
either unusually energetic, or else, for some reason, unu- 
sually dull and in need of entertainment herself. Violet did 
not describe the visitors with any particularity; he could 
not persuade himself that any one of them mattered to her. 
All were plainly ‘ Maud’s people,’ concerning themselves 
even less with her than she with them. One of the guests 
came in for rather more mention than the others, but that 
was not because of himself, but because of a proposition of 
his making.. The proposition was that Lassiter should join 
him in a shooting trip he was going to make to the Cana- 
dian Rockies — starting soon, about the end of September, 


258 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


and returning at Christmas. The proposal took Lassiter’s 
fancy a good deal, Violet wrote, though she did not know 
that he would go when it came to the point — very likely not. 
She hoped not ; she did not want him to go away for so long 
a time. 

There was another person who had gone abroad, but for 
his going she averred herself glad — that was Ingram. 
" Mr. Ingram has had to go abroad ” she wrote ; “ it is some- 
thing official, I believe, and a compliment to have been 
asked: he will be away some time, till quite the end of Octo- 
ber. I am glad ! 3 

Sam wondered why she was glad. Whether it was be- 
cause she did not like Ingram — he could not recall that she 
had ever said so; or because she did like him and, fearing 
Maud and her attraction, was glad to have him removed 
from the sphere of her influence. Next time he wrote he 
asked why she was glad. But she did not answer the ques- 
tion : it is quite natural not to answer all questions in a long 
letter — one is easily slipped. Besides, she was writing of 
another man by that time — Graham Burbidge, who had 
been to Grange Hall again for a few days. 

She said a good deal about him, more than she had of 
any previous visitor. But then, not only was he a friend of 
Sam’s and so likely to be of interest to him, which Sam 
overlooked; but also she saw more of him than she did of 
the others, which fact Sam did not overlook. She seemed 
to have seen a good deal of Burbidge in those few days, 
and when he left he sent her a present. He sent her and 
Maud each a present. Maud’s was a jewelled purse of bar- 
baric Hungarian gold work, of which they had spoken while 
he was at Grange Hall. Violet’s was a little natural his- 
tory story-book, from which his mother had read to him as 
a boy, and of which he had also spoken during the visit 
when Violet and he were talking about Jack and his lessons. 

Sam went suddenly cold when he came to this part of 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE AGAIN 


259 


the letter. He did not need Violet’s comment: “But I 
don’t think Mr. Burbidge really likes Maud . I somehow 
don’t think it is because he likes her that he has given her 
the purse.” He knew very well indeed which of the gifts 
was the valuable one to the man who reckoned most women 
by price, as articles of luxury or ornament, and who could 
afford himself any ornament or luxury and not miss the 
price. The gold toy was nothing to such a one; but the 
other gift — Burbidge had given Violet the best thing he had 
to give — a fragment of fragrant memory, a piece from far- 
off days sacred to a mother and a family affection which, 
so far as it survived, was the best remaining in him. Sam 
knew what the giving of the little book would be to the 
giver, and the knowledge turned him suddenly cold. 

Was this what was coming to Violet? A world- worn 
man on the downward slope of fifty? A vision of Bur- 
bidge, well groomed, well preserved, much experienced, 
with hard eyes and cynical mouth and belief in nothing, 
rose before him. Violet given to him! The thought of 
her white youth given to any man had jarred badly at the 
first inception; given to this one was unthinkable. Yet for 
a little he compelled himself to think about it ; not its advan- 
tages from a pecuniary point of view — he did not make the 
mistake of imagining there were any for Violet — but the 
chances of its becoming a fact. 

“ One must smoke on this,” he said, and sat down to do 
it. 

When he had half finished his pipe, illumination came, 
and he perceived that he was a fool. 

Had Burbidge this idea in his mind he had not given the 
little book. It is not with such presents rich men of his age 
set out to woo young wives — to buy them, as he would be 
well aware it is. 

“ There are two Graham Burbidges,” Sam reminded him- 
self ; “ one who, if he wanted, would and could buy a young 


260 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 

wife, and he would not set about it with costless gifts ; the 
other, a little known individual, who does not get much 
chance or often come out — who cares about brother Al- 
gernon, and has kept for fifty years a book his mother gave 
him. He would not insult that mother’s memory by us- 
ing the book as bait in any such angling or for the making 
of any such bargain.” 

The thought of this cheered Sam considerably; also the 
further thought, that one might trust Violet. She would 
not make such an awful mistake, even to buy Counter shell 
and secure a modest competence to her friend, S. Bailey — 
objects for which she might, perhaps, do some foolish 
things. Sam felt better, having come to this conclusion. 
Still, from time to time, the fear recurred, and had to be 
argued with. When Graham Burbidge came to see Al- 
gernon early in November, it recurred rather emphatically. 
Burbidge, seen at close quarters, was a more formidable 
person than memory painted him; one who missed nothing 
he aimed at, and was foiled by nothing; who, under his 
suave manner, had relentlessness and the quiet strength of 
assured success. 

The coming of Graham Burbidge caused less disturbance 
at the poultry farm than it did at George Burbidge’s big 
house near Denham. Mrs. George and all the household 
prepared for his rare advent as they did for nothing else, 
spending themselves in their efforts to excel the best. Mrs. 
Algernon did not. Graham Burbidge was to her not a mil- 
lionaire epicure, to be feasted on lark’s tongues and kindred 
dainties, but merely her husband’s favourite brother. He 
had succeeded in the world better than her husband, though 
he had not, in her opinion, so many brains ; and he was very 
generous to him. The first made no difference to her; the 
second won him her sincere affection and respect. She was 
glad to see him, and prepared for his coming as she would 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE AGAIN 


261 


for any other of her occasional visitors. She had the best 
sheets put on the spare bed, which she saw was well aired; 
ordered a good, simple dinner, herself superintending some 
of the cooking beforehand; and, when he came, let the 
brothers talk to each other undisturbed — and uncorrected, 
even when occasionally they made statements she held to be 
mistaken. 

He came on a Saturday, arriving late; and on Sunday 
Algernon took him round and showed him all the improve- 
ments and arrangements of Sam’s making. Sam saw them 
in the distance. He saw Graham threading his way among 
coops and runs, listening to dissertations on breeds and 
prices and methods of sale, and giving congratulatory at- 
tention to accounts of profits which would not have paid his 
tips on the journey from Town. He watched both brothers 
— the tall, stooping elder, and the alert smaller and younger. 
From a distance he looked much the younger. His slim, 
upright figure, perfectly padded and carried, gave a look of 
youth which his movements did not belie. But nearer the 
youth was gone. The face was old with an age — calculated 
in knowledge, not years — that was old as the world. It 
was less lined than the mathematician’s, truly, and the hair 
was less white, but beside it the face of the other was the 
face of a child. 

Not that Sam found fault with that — it added point to 
him ; as the eye-glass and the too immaculate clothes added 
humour to the sight of the financier among the hen runs on 
a damp November Sunday — though Sam did not feel in- 
clined to laugh, in spite of his embarrassingly keen sense of 
humour. “ You are a big man, Graham Burbidge,” was his 
private opinion, “ as big here as in the City, or bigger. I 
take off my hat to you — to your heart as well as to your 
head.” 

But in spite of that sentiment, the fear for Violet re- 


262 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


turned to him. It was increased rather than diminished 
by it. Later in the day Burbidge himself gave a little shock 
to it by asking if he was inclined to sell Countershell. 

It was on Sunday afternoon when they were in what was 
called the office — a small room built on to the end of the 
poultry food store, heated with a closed stove, and not lux- 
uriously fitted up, but — so Sam said — palatial compared to 
some offices of his African experience, and since his com- 
ing arranged with a nicety and orderliness characteristic of 
him. Burbidge had intimated that he would like some ac- 
count of affairs from him; which was quite right, in Sam’s 
opinion, seeing he was Burbidge’s man. He approved that 
the financier, who treated his brother’s part in this concern 
with such gentleness and generosity, should require exact 
account from him. Indeed, he admired him rather than 
otherwise for bringing the same keenness to the trifles of 
profit and loss here as he did to those of great deals. Sam 
regarded it as a compliment to himself that he should do so, 
and should treat the matter on a business footing — more 
especially when he declared himself well satisfied. 

It was when the affairs of the poultry farm were dis- 
posed of that Burbidge suddenly asked if he were inclined 
to sell the house of Countershell. 

He was not, and said so. “ Didn’t I tell you before ? I 
thought I did. I suppose I forgot.” 

“ You said so,” Burbidge replied ; “ also, that you did not 
expect to have the chance. Having the chance frequently 
makes a difference to men’s inclinations, I find.” 

“ Not to mine in this case,” Sam answered. 

“ You mean to keep it? Under no conditions sell it? ” 

“ Under no conditions.” 

“ That sounds final,” Burbidge said, and gave attention to 
lighting a cigar. 

Sam watched him a moment uneasily, then inquired: 
“ Why do you ask ? ” 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE AGAIN 


“ I was rather thinking that I might like to buy it one 
day,” Burbidge answered. “ I don’t know that I should — 
possibly not, but I might.” 

“ You? ” Sam said. “ What for? It could be no use to 
you.” 

“ What for? ” Burbidge said. “ For a wedding present.” 

Sam’s heart thumped; it was one of the penalties of the 
fever that his heart responded too quickly to any stimulus. 

“ I don’t know that I shall ever want it for that,” Bur- 
bidge went on ; “ quite likely not. Possibly I might not even 
feel inclined for it when the occasion arises — possibly, it 
may not arise. But there’s no harm in hearing what you 
would be prepared to take if I did happen to want to buy.” 

“ No,” said Sam, disabled from saying more. There was 
only one person to whom one could think of giving Counter- 
shell as a wedding present ; the thought of it kept his heart 
going so inconveniently that he felt sick. 

Burbidge, quite unaware, left the subject of Countershell, 
and went on to speak of Sam’s affairs with the frankness of 
one qualified to advise, and who had his interests in view. 

“ Those Gold Syndicate shares are going to be worth a 
good deal to you,” he observed. 

“ I know” Sam said gratefully. “ I owe that to you.” 

Burbidge set that aside. “ It is nothing,” he said ; 
“ you’ve earned all you get out of that deal, and waited for 
it too. I’m only glad it has turned out so well as it has — 
will, I might say ; we’re not done yet. You will hold on till 
I tell you to sell, I suppose ? ” 

Sam said he would, and put the matter unreservedly in 
Burbidge’s hands, knowing he could not do better than be 
guided by him. 

“ Better be guided by me about selling that house, too,” 
Burbidge advised. “ If you sold that moderately well, and 
invested in a rubber concern I could put you on, you’d make 
money.” 


264 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


But Sam declined. “ Thanks for advising me,” he said. 
“ It’s awfully good of you to trouble about my affairs — but 
I can’t do that.” 

“ Please yourself,” Burbidge said. “ I don’t know that it 
would please me specially well to have you a rich man. I 
don’t suggest you’d be rich by the Gold Syndicate and a lit- 
tle deal in rubber. Still, a modest competence would, I sup- 
pose, remove you from my use, as you would then cut 
poultry farming. By the way, how long will you stay 
here ? ’ 

“ Through the winter and spring if I am wanted,” Sam 
said — “ though, to be honest, I know I shan’t be really. By 
Christmas I shall have got things into order. A good work- 
ing manager, who understands his job and his man, could 
run it then to the perfect satisfaction of Mr. Algernon and 
everyone else, at much less than you’re paying me. You’d 
better let me find the man. I’ve had a wide and variegated 
experience of assistants of different colours. I can some- 
times spot a winner in the matter of subordinates. I 
would install him when got, and set him going, if you had 
no objection; it would make it easier for Mr. Algernon.” 

Burbidge nodded, and smoked a moment in silence. Sam 
thought he was considering the suggestion, but he was not, 
for, when he spoke, he said : “ I should like to thank you 
for what you have done here. It’s not quite your line or 
class. I knew that when I suggested your coming; and 
you’ve done well — better than I could have asked, or any- 
one else could have done. . I’m grateful to you for it, on my 
own behalf as well as my brother’s.” 

“ Oh, bosh ! ” Sam said, a little surprised and a good deal 
embarrassed. “There’s nothing in it; it’s the softest job 
man was ever well paid for doing. As for your brother, 
it’s a pleasure to work with him. Coming across a man 
like that’s worth something in itself ; one doesn’t meet them 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE AGAIN 265 

every day — the brain of a philosopher and the soul of a 
child/’ 

“ He’s a good old fellow,” Burbidge said briefly, but he 
was pleased with the tribute none the less. He spoke a lit- 
tle about Algernon, with an unconscious affection which sat 
oddly on him. Afterwards he said thoughtfully : “ Yes, 

it’s a very beautiful thing — that which we call the soul of a 
child.” 

Sam’s heart thumped a little again; somehow he knew 
Graham Burbidge was not speaking of Algernon now. 

“ It is a misnomer, of course,” Burbidge went on ; “ the 
attributes are not the characteristic attributes of childhood. 
A child is innocent because it is ignorant, not because it is 
pure in heart; honest, when it is honest, from a frank un- 
awareness of or disregard for the convenience and feelings 
of others; simpleminded, so far as it is selfminded — the 
most complete, if unconscious, egoists in the world, chil- 
dren. The attributes of childhood, with the happiness and 
inconsequence of the period, though becoming in their age 
and place, are not desirable in the grown-up. It is not the 
mind of a child — that kind of purity, truth, faith in man 
and Divinity, and simple desire to do the right.” 

“ You mean Violet Yarborough,” Sam said bluntly. 

Burbidge smiled a little. “ You think nothing less could 
have set me moralizing? I’m sure of it; it’s a most un- 
familiar strain. Yes, I was thinking of Miss Yarborough. 
Had I a son I should like him to marry such a girl. What’s 
the matter ? ” 

Sam’s heart had responded to this shock with such vio- 
lence that Burbidge thought he was ill. 

“ It’s nothing,” he said, rather breathlessly ; “ it’s only 
the fever — left me weak in the wind at times. I’m all 

right.” . . 

“ Oh ? ” Burbidge said ; and when he saw him beginning 


266 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


to look better asked if he ever expected to recover com- 
pletely. 

“ Oh yes,” Sam said, “ I’m much better. I shall be all 
right, or practically so, one day.” 

He felt he was better for all days. His relief was such 
that he felt nothing could matter much ; he even felt no anx- 
iety when Burbidge spoke again of Countershell, and said 
that it was with a view to Violet’s possible wedding at some 
time that he inquired about it. 

“ You’d give it to her for a wedding present? ” he asked. 
“ It’s awfully good of you, but — well, I should do that.” 

“ My dear fellow, you couldn’t afford it,” Burbidge told 
him. “ Oh, I don’t suggest that would deter you — the ques- 
tion of cost does not often deter a man in a case of that 
sort. I mean she would not accept from you what repre- 
sented that proportion of your possessions.” 

“ Would she from you? ” Sam demanded. “ She has not 
known you long, whereas I’m almost like a father to her.” 

“A little young, perhaps?” Burbidge suggested. “No 
doubt you were precocious. As for accepting the house 
from me, of course she would — as much as she would a rope 
of pearls or any other expensive toy I gave her on the oc- 
casion of her marriage. I’m not a millionaire, and I don’t 
know what you paid for Countershell, but I don’t suppose 
the price would make a very appreciable difference to my 
bank balance. A young lady I liked — and who, I flatter my- 
self, a little likes me — could, and would, accept the gift with 
propriety and satisfaction. If she does not get it that way 
she will not get it at all. You are saddled with the house 
for life.” 

“ Think so ? ” said Sam, not much convinced. “ In that 
case it might be worth considering. If she won’t accept it 
from me on her wedding, I’ll give you the option of pur- 
chase for that purpose — shall I ? ” 

“ By all means,” Burbidge said ; “ though it is under- 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE AGAIN 


267 


stood I am not bound to purchase for that or any other 
purpose. Personally, I should not be sorry if the occa- 
sion arose soon. I should be rather glad to hear that Miss 
Yarborough was likely to be married shortly.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because I do not think she is very well placed where 
she is. She is not, and never will be, happy there.” 

Sam looked up quickly. Though whether he had any- 
thing to ask he himself hardly knew; and at that moment 
Algernon, who had finished his afternoon nap and come out 
to look for his brother, opened the door. 

Graham went away with him soon after, and Sam was 
left alone. 

Being alone, he took a letter out of his pocket and looked, 
at it thoughtfully — the more thoughtfully for Burbidge’s 
last words. He unfolded and re-read it. It was one he 
had received from Violet a few days ago. It contained but 
little news — there was little to give now, for life was quiet 
at Grange Hall. Lassiter had gone on the shooting, expedi- 
tion with his friend, and Maud was a good deal away. 
There was a little information about the cousins, from 
whom Violet heard occasionally ; Dorothy had passed an ex- 
amination; Mina was engaged to be married. Concern- 
ing Violet herself there was no news. She had been riding 
lately ; she had not a very satisfactory mount ; Lassiter had 
not had time to give much attention to the matter before he 
left ; but there was a horse she was able to ride sometimes. 
She had been out several times recently — once with Tony 
Rumbolt, usually with Jack. He was less nervous than he 
used to be on his pony ; she thought he might have quite got 
over it by Christmas. He was going away to school after 
Christmas — that had been settled in September, before Las- 
siter left England. Violet made no comment on it in this 
letter ; she had not made much when she first mentioned it 
in an earlier one. She recognized it as inevitable ; also, pos- 


268 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


sibly, really best for the boy. Concerning what it would be 
to herself she had said little. There was no reference to it 
in this letter. The only other reference to Jack was a re- 
mark to the effect that he had a cold, he had, rather often. 

Violet herself was well — she always was ; and Maud was 
well, and at home just now. She had been with Mrs. 
Gainsworth, but she was back now for a little. Violet 
thought she was going to Town that week — to friends, not 
to the flat. That had been let to some relations of Lassiter’s 
who wanted it — Maud consenting at the time, but after- 
wards regretting it. Ingram would be back in England 
soon; he had been away longer than was anticipated, but 
had written to Maud saying he would be back soon ; he was 
coming to Grange Hall for the first Sunday he was home. 
There was nothing more than that said about him ; nothing 
much about Maud — nothing about anyone or anything from 
which one could deduce something amiss. Yet Sam felt 
things were not well with Violet. She may not have had 
anything on her mind ; but she was not happy, and she never 
would be there. Burbidge was right, and Sam knew it. 
He knew it better than Burbidge did, and earlier too — had 
he not seen her face when he took her by surprise the night 
he returned from Africa? She was not happy. She was 
making the best of it, doing her duty as she conceived it — 
keeping a good front ; but happy there she never would be. 
She was in an ungenial atmosphere — one which was getting 
more, not less, so. And the worst of it was no one could 
help ; there was nothing that he or anyone could do. 

"If only I were ten years older! ” he thought. “ We’d 
go and live at Countershell, and run a poultry farm between 
us till the true Prince came. We could do it.” 

He calculated with rapid accuracy, figuring what the Gold 
Syndicate would be worth to him, and counting up his other 
resources, and coming to the conclusion that the thing 
could be done and still leave Violet’s little income un- 


GRAHAM BURBIDGE AGAIN 


269 


touched. For a few minutes the calculations, with care- 
ful attention to detail, occupied him; then the whole col- 
lapsed. A figure, momentarily forgotten and left out of the 
calculations, recurred to him — ten — the ten years that were 
lacking and made the difference between the possible and 
the impossible. He remembered it, and, with signal in- 
justice, cursed Burbidge for inane remarks about pre- 
cocity and youth for the role of father. 

He opened the letter and read it again; but there was 
nothing fresh he could read into, or out of, it. And noth- 
ing he could think of to do, to any purpose. He could only 
write to Violet, asking her, as he asked her once before, 
when he went back to Africa for the last time, to promise 
to let him know if at any time he could be of help or use to 
her. 

“ Send me word, Jane " (he wrote) “ if ever you are in a 
hole, if things have gone wrong, or you are in a tight place , 
or even if you have merely got the hump very badly — 
which in itself is as beastly a thing as one can wish for . 
Send me a wire, and I'll come and sit in the hole with you 
if I can't get you 01U ; there's always room for two where 
there is one; and company, even in dust and ashes, is some- 
thing. Promise me you'll wire." 

Afterwards, when the letter was posted, it occurred to 
him that he had been rather absurdly insistent, since he had 
no occasion to think there was anything special wrong, and 
no reason at all to imagine that anything was likely to oc- 
cur. But still he did not regret having written. Indeed, as 
time went on, he was glad of it ; for, either infected by his 
own words or from some other more subtle reason, he grew 
to feel that Violet would have need of him, and that she 
would send to him. 

And one day, towards the end of the month, she did. 


CHAPTER XV 


VIOLET IN TROUBLE 


IOLET was on the platform to meet Sam. As the 



▼ train came into the station he saw her ; before it had 
fairly stopped he had reached her. 

“ What is it ? ” He asked the question without waiting 
for greeting; her strained face and eyes, dark with trouble, 
put every other consideration out of his head. 

“ Jack,” she answered. 

“ Jack?” 

He drew her hand into his arm. “ Is he ill? ” he asked. 

She nodded. “ Very,” she said — “ double pneumonia; he 
may even be dying. But that’s not it — not why I tele- 
graphed for you ; it’s — Maud is not here.” 

“ Haven’t you sent for her? ” 

“Yes; but she is not there.” 

Sam halted. “ What do you mean ? ” he asked. 

“Just that,” she said, leading on down the platform. 
“ She is not where I thought she was. She’s gone to Paris, 
I think ; but I don’t know where. And we must find her ! 
That’s why I came to the station to meet you. I thought it 
might save time if there was anything to be done. And 
we must do something — we must find her ! Supposing he 
were to die, and she not come ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Sam slowly. 

“We won’t suppose that,” he said, as he gave his ticket 
to the collector, and followed her to the waiting car. 

“What have you done so far?” he asked. “Tell me — 
and tell me, if you can, how things are ; never fear, we shall 
be able to hit on something between us.” 


VIOLET IN TROUBLE 271 

“ I know,” she said. “ Oh, it’s good to have you here ! 
You can’t think how I have wanted you ! ” 

Sam would have liked to think, at another time he might 
have done so. Now, however, he must attend to other 
things if he was to be any help — and to be of help was the 
sole reason of his presence and his welcome. 

“ When did Maud go ? ” he asked. 

“ Three days ago.” 

“ Was Jack ill then ? ” 

“ Not ill — at least, not exactly ; he was in bed, not well, 
but the doctor said he would be better in a few days. Maud 
talked it over with him ; he didn’t think there was any need 
for her to stay if she wanted to go.” 

Sam nodded. He did not know the doctor, but he did 
know how easy it was to think there was no need for Maud 
to do anything but what she wanted to do — all things were 
made easy for Maud, chooser of the easy path, easy the 
descent for her, and easy she made it for others — and some- 
one else paid the price in pain. His lips set at the thought, 
and his eyes grew grim and very sad. 

“ You say she has gone to Paris ? ” he said. “ Didn’t she 
tell you where she would be staying? ” 

“ She didn’t intend to stop in Paris when she went away, 
but it seems she is there now — if she is not dead, or some- 
thing dreadful happened.” 

“ Nothing dreadful ever happens to Maud,” he assured 
her; “she’s all right. Put that out of your head, and tell, 
me where she did intend to stop, if you know.” 

“ A place called Melun ; it’s about forty miles from Paris, 
I think. A French artist she met at Mrs. Gainsworth’s 
lives there; he and his wife asked Maud to come and see 
them, and she thought it would be rather jolly to go. She 
liked him a good deal. I know she meant to go there when 
she started; she found out about trains, and which station 
in Paris to go from, and travelled without Norris, because 


<TO CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


there would not be room for her in the artist’s little house. 

“ And she didn’t go there in the end ? ” 

“ No, I sent the message about Jack there, and they re- 
plied she was in Paris — they did not know where.” 

“ What did you do then ? ” 

“ Asked Norris where she usually stayed in Paris, and 
wired to her there, and also to the dressmaker that Norris 
says she sometimes goes to in Paris, to know if she had 
seen her and could say where she was. Neither had seen 
her; so I telegraphed for you. Since then, by this after- 
noon’s post, I have got a letter from the artist explaining 
how it was Maud was not with them. She wrote to him 
from Paris, asking to put off her visit a little, as she had 
unexpectedly met friends in Paris and was staying a few 
days with them. He did not know the name of the 
friends, but said no doubt Maud had sent her address by 
this time. But she hasn’t.” 

“ No,” said Sam ; “ and if the artist had been an old 
friend instead of a new one, he would have known there 
was considerable doubt about her thinking to do so.” 

“ You think she is there — in Paris all right ? ” Violet 
queried. “ You don’t think anything has happened to 
her ? ” 

Sam did not; the whole was too characteristic of Maud 
and her ways for him to see any need to seek for a more 
painful explanation. “ It’s exactly like her,” he said; 
“ she started for one place and one set of people so filled 
with the idea of going that it would have upset her greatly 
to have to give it up. She met someone on the way who 
filled her with the idea of going to another place and set of 
people, and the first was wiped out by the second; she no 
longer wanted to go, and she didn’t. That she did not re- 
member to send word to you is not surprising ; it is, rather, 
more surprising that she did remember to send word to the 
artist. I’ve known her forget such things as that till the 


VIOLET IN TROUBLE 


273 


eleventh hour, when she was really taken up with a new 
idea.” 

“ But what are we to do ? ” Violet asked. “ It wouldn’t 
matter in the ordinary way; but now, we must get her — 
don’t you see, we must get her at once ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Sam soberly. “ Do you know at all who she 
knows in Paris ? ” 

“ No one living there ; no one she would want to stay 
with. It must be someone who is there for a time only.” 

“ And consequently staying at an hotel ? In that case one 
should be able to find her by going to Paris and starting in- 
quiries among the hotels.” 

“ Could you do it that way? Would it take very long? ” 

Sam thought it might take some time, but he also 
thought it was bound to succeed. u She is a noticeable per- 
son — not easily overlooked,” he said. 

“ Is there no other way ? ” Violet asked. 

He could not think of one to any purpose. 

“ Would you have to go ? ” she inquired. 

She wanted him to stay desperately ; she wanted someone 
to turn to, to share the responsibility and anxiety a little. 
But it seemed the only thing for him to go. 

“ We must find Maud,” she said ; “ even, as it is, it may 
not be in time. If Jack lives through to-morrow it’ll be all 
right, they hope.” 

If not, and if Sam went away to look for Maud, she would 
be alone at the crisis, the boy’s parents both away. 

“ Are any of Lassiter’s relations within range ? ” Sam 
asked. “ Are they any use ? ” 

She shook her head. “ They y re almost strangers to Jack,” 
she said ; “ they would do no good ; besides, they’d think 
Maud ought to be here. They wouldn’t understand. They 
might think ” 

“ Yes,” Sam said gravely, “ I see.” He was silent a mo- 
ment, thinking the situation over ; then he said : “ It 


274 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


strikes me you and I have got to get through this alone, 
Jane. It seems to be what’s demanded of us.” 

He stopped, a new idea occurring to him. “ Burbidge is 
crossing to Paris to-night,” he said ; “ he mentioned it in a 
letter that Algernon had from him this morning. He would 
find Maud in half the time I should, if we asked him to do 
it.” 

Violet hesitated. “ Ought we ? ” she said. 

“ Yes,” Sam answered. “ It would save time, as nothing 
else would. He knows Paris inside out, I’ve only spent 
one day there; he’d have her in less than half the time I 
should if she’s there, and I shall be here to deal with any- 
thing that may arise supposing — supposing she isn’t.” 

Still Violet wavered; she wanted him and his support 
so much that she almost felt it must be right for him to go, 
in spite of the clear advantages Burbidge possessed for the 
search. 

“ Ought we to ask him ? ” she said. “ Perhaps he would 
not do it.” 

" He would, like a shot,” Sam answered. “ It wouldn’t 
be much trouble to him either ; he’d know how to set about 
it better than I should, and he’d do it a deal quicker.” He 
took the matter into his own hands, convinced that he had 
found the best and quickest way of getting Maud. 

The car was turned, and dropped him at the first call 
office in the town they had just left. 

“ You go on home,” he said as he got out. “ It may take 
time to get Burbidge ; it’s a trunk call. Go home ; you must 
want to get back.” 

Violet did. Nothing but the feeling that the situation 
might demand speedy action of some sort would have 
brought her from the house that afternoon. She returned 
now without waiting, and afterwards sent the car back to 
meet Sam. 

And Sam, after considerable delay and trouble, spoke to 


VIOLET IN TROUBLE 


ns 


Burbidge at his city office, telling him the case, or some of 
it. He omitted to mention that Jack was not well when his 
mother left ; that he was suddenly seriously ill was all truth 
demanded. He told Burbidge so, and also that Violet 
would be alone with the responsibility unless he could stay 
with her. And Burbidge, as he had anticipated, readily 
undertook the commission, agreeing with him that he would 
be more use at Grange Hall than in Paris; while he him- 
self would be able to do what was wanted with little 
trouble. 

“ PH have the lady within an hour or two of my arrival 
if she’s in Paris,” he said with certainty. 

And Sam thought it was quite likely. He set out for 
Grange Hall somewhat relieved in mind. 

“ He’ll find her if it is possible,” he told Violet when he 
got there. 

Violet said, “ Yes,” though without so much relief as one 
might have expected. 

“Of course he would never say anything that mattered,” 
she said, as if reassuring herself. “ I mean, he would not 
think anything, or misunderstand. He doesn’t quite like 
Maud, it is true, but he’s very wise and, I think, fair; he 
wouldn’t misunderstand, or — or think anything, even if she 
were doing something foolish.” 

“ What do you expect her to be doing? ” Sam asked. 

“ I don’t know,” she answered — “ nothing really. She 
wouldn’t do anything wrong; she never means any harm, 
though sometimes she does it, and some people might not 
understand.” 

“ Would you rather I went ? ” Sam asked. “ I think 
there is still time. I shouldn’t get her as quickly as Bur- 
bidge, but I’d better go if ” 

“ No,” Violet protested. “ No, there’s no reason, I’m 
sure; it’s just silliness, being alone so much and worrying 
and thinking and thinking. It would be better for Mr. 


276 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


Burbidge to look for her; he will do it quicker than you, 
and — and you will be here/' 

Her voice quivered a little at the last, in a way which 
told how much she wanted him, and what the strain of the 
past days had been on her. 

“ Burbidge is a man of sense,” Sam said ; “ you can trust 
him to do and say the right thing; he won’t make any mis- 
take, even if Maud is playing the goat. He’ll just give her 
the news, start her off home, and think no more about it.” 

They thought no more about it either, for the time be- 
ing at least, for a message was just then brought to Violet 
from the nurse, requesting her to go upstairs as Jack was 
asking for her. 

There were two nurses in charge, the most efficient it 
was possible to get at short notice, invested with the fullest 
powers and control. They ruled the sick-room and the 
household, and Jack’s old nurse, relegated to a secondary 
place; and everything they said was done, and everything 
they required procured. They were good capable women, 
both of them; the younger pretty, the elder a woman of 
sense and some tenderness. The younger was at first a 
little doubtful about the advent of Sam. She had ideas 
upon discretion and propriety which did not quite approve 
a youngish man — no one’s relation, not the child’s, nor 
Miss Yarborough’s, nor anyone else’s — appearing without 
any sort of connection with the family, or sufficient reason 
for being there. The elder nurse thought differently, and 
from the first said it was a mercy someone had come ; rela- 
tion or no relation, it was time the poor child (Violet) had 
someone to turn to. The doctor, too, was rather relieved 
to find Sam when he came at six. He consulted with him 
about Maud and her non-arrival. Sam said he expected 
she would be there by the next day, and bore out what he 
concluded to have been Violet’s earlier explanation — that 
the first summons had miscarried. 


VIOLET IN TROUBLE 


m 

“ Well, I hope the second won't,” the doctor said anx- 
iously. “ It is a very serious situation ; I don’t wish to be 
an alarmist, but it is serious; Lady Lassiter ought to be 
informed, she ought to be here, more especially as Sir Ed- 
ward is away. Miss Yarborough is doing all that she 
should, and bearing herself bravely, but there ought to be 
someone here, and she flatly declines to have any relative 
sent for; she declines entirely to send for Sir Edward’s sis- 
ter — for anyone.” 

“ Ah ? ” said Sam. “ Ever met the sister ? Or her hus- 
band? I thought not.” 

The doctor explained that he was not thinking of them 
as of practical use, but repeated that someone ought to be 
there. “Miss Yarborough is young,” he said, “very 
young.” 

“ I’m not,” Sam said — he felt very old — “ I’m not young, 
and my acquaintance with Miss Yarborough is not, nor my 
acquaintance with Lady Lassiter either; the last is twenty 
years old and more.” 

The doctor nodded approval, but when Sam asked him 
bluntly, “ Do you expect the boy to die ? ” he became pro- 
fessional. He spoke of the consultation there had been 
that day, gave the guarded opinion of the great man who 
had come from London, and spoke vaguely himself. 

“‘While there’s life there’s hope,’ and so on?” Sam 
said. “ But he has not much chance, is that it? ” 

The doctor would not commit himself, but Sam perceived 
that was his view ; also the view of the nurses when he saw 
them later on. 

“If we can keep him through the night,” the senior nurse 
said, “ I shall be hopeful.” 

“ The night ? ” Sam queried. “ I thought it was through 
to-morrow; he’s weaker than Violet thought, then? I 
don’t think there is any chance his mother will be here be- 
fore to-morrow.” 


278 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


The nurse was sympathetic, but, with her thoughts on her 
patient, added comfortingly: “He does not ask for her. 
He asked yesterday when she was coming back, and Miss 
Yarborough told him she had sent for her to come soon; 
since then he has not spoken of her.” 

“ No,” said Sam, and went down to dinner, feeling the 
house full of shadows. Not only the shadow of death, but 
also shadows of life — shadows cast by one who had always 
had brightness, who had slipped from the rough and the 
dark and the hard of existence always. 

While they were at dinner that evening a telegram was 
brought to Violet. It was addressed to Maud, but Sam 
said : “ Open it.” 

She did, and read : “ Will be home to-morrow evening. 

— Ted r 

“He’ll be home?” she said. “I didn’t know he’d 
started even ! Oh, I am glad ! ” 

She handed the telegram to Sam, who read it and ob- 
served that it had been dispatched from Queenstown. 
“ He’s changed his plans too,” Sam said ; “ it’s a wonderful 
household for not doing what it says, and doing what it 
doesn’t say, without notice. I suppose the other man was 
sick, or the grizzlies shy, or Lassiter suddenly recollected 
that he would be missing a lot of hunting and Maud, and 
so turned round and came home again a month earlier than 
he intended. Twenty-four hours’ notice is as much as one 
can expect here. It’s a good thing he’s coming.” 

“ Yes,” Violet said ; then asked : “ Do you think Maud 
will be back by then? Do you think there is any chance 
Mr. Burbidge will be able to find her, so that she gets back 
by then?” 

Sam had some doubts. “ He may,” he said ; “ he 
sounded as if he thought he would. Anyway, it will be 
something to have one of them here.” 

“ For Jack — yes,” Violet said. “ I am glad for him, and 


VIOLET IN TROUBLE 279 

for Ted, too; it’s a great comfort to think he will be here. 
But if Maud's not back ” 

“ Ted will think she is perfectly right to be away,” Sam 
said, “ or will within ten minutes of seeing her again. I 
dare say he won’t till he does see her; he will very likely 
blow up to you till that happens, feel himself ill-used, his 
son neglected and Maud entirely in the wrong; but you will 
come in for that, for his anger and his anxiety too. When 
Maud comes the air will clear and the sun come out ; some- 
how or other he will feel she is quite right, and could not 
have done other than she did.” 

Violet thought it possible; but her anxiety for Maud’s 
return was increased by the news of Lassiter’s speedy com- 
ing. She spoke of it again later, and asked once more if 
Sam thought she could arrive first. 

“If she contrives to catch the early boat, and if that 
keeps time, she’d be here before dinner,” he said ; “ there’s 
a chance of it if she really is in Paris, and Burbidge finds 
her as quickly as he says.” 

“ She must be in Paris,” Violet declared. “ She told the 
artist she was staying there. I wish I knew who with; it 
would make it easier to find her.” 

“ Is her friend, Mrs. Gainsworth, in Paris ? ” Sam asked. 

“ No, in Leicestershire I don’t know anyone she knows 
who is there now. Mr. Ingram is with his own people ; be- 
sides, she would not stay in Paris with him.” 

“ Even Maud might realize there were objections to that 
amusement ? ” Sam said. 

Violet nodded : “ And I know he went to his own peo- 

ple,” she said, as one rather glad of that additional reason 
for belief. “ He told her he was going, when he was here 
for that week-end directly after he came home. He had 
got leave, and said he must spend the first part of it with 
his own people, afterwards he was coming here for a while. 
They fixed the date, and Maud arranged to be back from 


280 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


Melun by then ; it was at that time she decided to go there, 
so I know he isn’t in Paris, and Maud would not stay there 
with him if he were.” 

“ No,” said Sam, beginning to perceive that Violet was 
not so much convinced of it herself as anxious to be. 

“ Of course, if she happened to be passing through 
Paris,” she said, “ and he happened to be there ” 

“She would stop if she wanted to?” Sam suggested. 
“ Yes, I think she would, as soon as if he were her grand- 
mother, and with no other thought than enjoying herself ; 
which she would do, hugely, to the exclusion of everything 
else. Reputation, child, the man’s own view — everything 
would be forgotten ; or, rather, would never occur to her to 
be forgotten, unless it absolutely hit her over the head, and 
even then she might manage to blink it.” 

Violet looked uneasy : “ Do you think it possible ? ” she 

asked. 

“ Now you have mentioned it, I begin to,” Sam admitted. 
“ I don’t mean necessarily probable, there’s no betting on 
Maud; she may be nursing a sick man or a sick dog in a 
back street; she m^ay be seeing a chance-met fellow trav- 
eller through a stiff or exciting time, or she may be galli- 
vanting about with a millionaire she knows no more than 
by name — anything is possible, including, if Ingram is in 
Paris, that she is with him.” 

He spoke lightly, but he glanced at the clock as he did 
so. It was a quarter to nine, too late for him to start for 
Paris on the errand which he regretted now having en- 
trusted to another. If this possible explanation of Maud’s 
doings had occurred to him before, he would have gone for 
her himself, no matter at what cost or what inevitable de- 
lay. It might be better for her to be found late— as she 
certainly would have been if ever at all, by himself, than 
early by Burbidge, who did not understand. But there 
was not time now ; it was too late, even, to stop Burbidge, 


VIOLET IN TROUBLE 


281 


were that wise which it was not, seeing that, invent what 
explanation he might, Burbidge was extremely likely to 
supply one himself, and that near the truth, only a good 
deal worse than it. There was nothing to be done but to 
leave matters as they were and hope for the best. 

He left them and said nothing to Violet, which last was 
made the easier as she was fetched upstairs to Jack. 

She went, glad to be able to give the boy the news that 
his father would be home to-morrow. She did not come 
down again, although she was not allowed to stay long in 
the sick-room. She and Sam spent the evening in the nurs- 
ery, the room which was used as the schoolroom now, and 
which was off the passage from Jack’s bedroom — the room 
to which Maud had taken Sam more than once on his first 
visit to Grange Hall, and where he had seen her at play 
with the child. The thought of those times recurred to 
him now, and the sight of Maud at play, Maud laughing- 
eyed, proud of the handsome child, adored by him — Maud 
who always laughed, who always had the gladness and 
missed the pain, who forgot the cost and the pain that might 
be. 

“ Aye, Jane,” he said, breaking a long silence, “ it’s a 
mistake, that. A creature is the poorer for having left the 
suffering out. It’s a mistake, that whole-souled playing; 
taking no thought for the morrow, or yesterday either; 
playing like a child in the sun. Life isn’t play, and one 
isn’t a child turned thirty, and the things played with aren’t 
child things, they are hearts and reputations and responsi- 
bilities; and men’s lives too, sometimes.” 

Violet shivered a little ; she wondered if Maud would be 
called upon to pay for the play, and how great would be 
the penalty exacted. 

“ Not as you pay,” Sam told her ; “ you pay before and 
after, for her and with her, as well as on your own ac- 
count.” 


282 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


Violet shivered again. “If she does not come in time! ” 
she said. 

Sam did not answer ; he knew the chance that she would 
was of the smallest. 

“If she doesn’t!” Violet repeated, looking at him with 
wide eyes. “ Do you think she will ? ” 

He did not say — he had nothing to say. But she knew 
why he was silent. “ You think? ” she said. “ Oh, Maud! 
Poor, poor Maud ! Her boy, her only child ! ” 

Sam nodded, and she came closer to him for comfort. 

They sat silent — she, grieving for the mother’s threat- 
ened grief; he, for her and for the crookedness of the 
world, and for Maud too, the dead Maud of his far-off 
dreams, and the other Maud of to-day. 

About ten o’clock the doctor came again. He stayed 
some time in the sick-room, and afterwards came to the 
nursery. He told Violet she should go to her room and lie 
down ; the nurse would call her if there was any need, any 
change at all. She thanked him, but refused ; she said she 
would stay with Sam. The doctor stayed too some while, 
and went again to the sick-room ; then left, saying he would 
come again at four. There was little or nothing he could 
do now ; whichever way things went medicine could neither 
help nor hinder to any real extent. But he was conscien- 
tious, in spite of the one time he had advised Maud as she 
wished, and he was very anxious too. Had Sam not come 
and Violet been alone, he would have stayed all night, al- 
though he had been up all the night before and knew he 
could be of no service. As it was, he felt there was noth- 
ing he could do and little need for him, so he went away, 
and Sam and Violet were left alone again. 

They spoke little, the sense of waiting and the sense of 
the shadows in the house oppressed them, neither was 
minded to talk; but the silence was companionable, and 
Sam’s presence was to Violet an unutterable comfort. 


VIOLET IN TROUBLE 


283 


Through a long slow hour they sat, the door of the nursery 
open, the door of the bedroom ajar. The house was quite 
quiet, but awake with a wakefulness not of the day. There 
were lights on stairs and in passages, but no one about or 
astir. There were servants up somewhere, in case the mis- 
tress should unexpectedly return, or they should be wanted 
for some errand or message, but there was neither sight nor 
sound of them. The silence in the house and the light in it 
seemed both unnatural, of no part with the ordinary things 
of day, having no beginning or end, an ill-omened half-day 
which had gone on for long. 

“ It seems as if yesterday had been going on for years 
and years/’ Violet said, “ and as if there were never going 
to be a to-morrow.” 

A clock struck midnight as she spoke, and Sam said: 
“ It is to-morrow.” 

She listened to the striking, then rose and tip-toed across 
the passage to the bedroom door. She had been before, 
and he had been too, and stood there listening. But there 
had been nothing to hear, except the child’s difficult breath- 
ing, and once a coal falling from the fire. There was noth- 
ing more now, and she came back, and again they took up 
their watch in the same silence, the same strained listening. 

A little before one some tea was brought. Jack’s nurse 
brought it; she made tea often in those days and brought 
it to Violet at unusual times, and often brought her a shawl 
or bedroom slippers too. She fetched them now, when she 
had set the tea-tray on the table, and asked if she could do 
anything more. 

“ No, thank you,” Violet said ; “ thank you very much. 
You had better go to bed, I think; I’m sorry you should 
have sat up to make this, though it’s very kind of you to 
think of it.” 

“ Her ladyship won’t be arriving to-night ? ” the woman 
queried. 


284 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ Not till to-morrow,” Violet said, and repeated once 
again the explanation of the miscarriage of the first sum- 
mons and also the advice to go to bed. 

The nurse withdrew saying: “You ought to take some 
rest yourself, miss ; indeed, you ought.” 

“ Not yet,” Violet said — “ after the doctor has been. He 
is coming again at four. I don’t want to go till after then. 
I don’t want to go now Mr. Bailey has come.” 

This last was spoken unconsciously. At times like this, 
when all the ordinary details of life are changed, such 
things do sometimes get said, and pass as little noticed by 
the hearers as the sayers. 

The nurse went out, and Sam poured the tea, and after- 
wards put on Violet’s quilted slippers, as, long ago, he had 
put on slippers for her while she sat in a draughty 
window niche on her birthday night at Countershell. Both 
recalled it, though neither spoke of it ; they spoke very lit- 
tle, and when the tea was drunk and the slight clink of the 
china and teaspoons over, all was quiet again; the waiting 
and watching began again. 

At length Sam rose. " Shall I go to the door and 
listen? ” he said. “ Would you not rather go in there, if the 
nurse says you may?” 

She nodded, and he went. 

In the passage the lights were burning higher, as they do 
far on in the night. He regulated them, then slipped 
across to the bedroom door. He looked in, and caught the 
eye of the senior nurse with a question in his glance. He 
looked from a small figure lying on the bed to the door and 
sought permission. She looked towards the child too, then, 
after a moment, nodded, and he beckoned Violet. To- 
gether they entered, and sat down not far from the bed, 
Violet very near it, her eyes on the child, Sam’s eyes on her. 
They sat there for an hour, neither moving nor speaking — ■ 
for more than an hour, for more than two, in the dense 


VIOLET IN TROUBLE 


285 


silence which belongs to the further side of midnight; to 
the small hours when the spirit grows weak ; and in the long 
night of winter, one can almost hear the approaching tread 
of death. 

Violet heard it before any other did, before it had crossed 
the threshold of the room. Something in her responded 
to something in the child, and she stirred when he did. She 
was on her knees beside him in one silent movement when 
his eyelids fluttered and he looked bewilderedly round. 
His eyes opened wide — Maud’s eyes with the same depth of 
colour. “ Mummie ? ” he said, the word, though scarcely 
passing his lips, audible to at least two of those there. 

Violet put her hand on his. “ Darling, to-morrow,” she 
said, and her voice wrung Sam’s heart. 

The boy looked disappointed, then his fingers clung to 

hers. “ You’ll take care — of me ” he said faintly, but 

content. 

Violet’s hands closed on his, the big white hand with the 
strong clasp on the feebly fluttering one. She would take 
care while any might, holding him, not from death that 
might not be but all the way to it; — keeping close to him, 
as close as soul may to soul while the body still remains 
between; trying to give him strength from her own store 
while he had any holding here, even when he sank to un- 
consciousness and lethargy — only relaxing, and, in her sim- 
ple faith, trusting him to Another, when he slipped from 
her by death. 


CHAPTER XVI 
THE COST OF MAUD 

B URBIDGE had said he would find Maud within a few 
hours of arriving in Paris, if she were there. And he 
spoke the truth; his agent found her for him well within 
that time. He had dispatched a code message to the agent 
before he left London — in fact, almost as soon as he had 
done talking to Sam on the telephone, giving what informa- 
tion he possessed and orders that the lady should be traced. 
And the agent obeyed the instructions, asking no questions, 
and speculating not at all as to reasons — merely obeying 
orders. Within some two hours of Burbidge’s arrival in 
Paris, he was able to supply all the information required. 

Part of the information made Burbidge think. He had 
undertaken the commission in kindness of heart, and a dis- 
interested spirit with nothing personal in it ; part of the in- 
formation, however, suggested a possibility that something 
personal might be gained, too. He turned it in his mind a 
moment; and turned, also, news he had received by letter 
yesterday. He had not the letter with him, but he knew its 
contents quite well; and quite well what the chief engineer 
of the Central African Gold Syndicate expressed therein as 
his opinion of missionaries, especially those with acquaint- 
ances among the junior officials of the Colonial Office; and 
his uneasiness about the possible sayings (he called it 
“ damned interference ”) of one such good man. 

Burbidge turned the matter thoughtfully in his mind as 
he set out for the hotel where he was informed Lady Las- 
siter was staying, and, seeing that it was eight o’clock in 
the morning, probably sleeping now. 


THE COST OF MAUD 




The lady must be disturbed. He regretted it much, but 
it must be. He convinced the manager of the fact ; he had 
the means that carry conviction, and was of the sort to 
whom little is denied at a Paris hotel. His card, with a 
few pencilled words on it, was carried to Maud’s room. 

Maud was roused with difficulty. When the card was 
gently, but persistently, forced upon her, she drowsily said 
it did not matter, and when the name on it was read to her, 
she repeated it uncomprehendingly. But at the third repe- 
tition it penetrated to her brain, and, asking what he wanted, 
she took the card and looked at it for herself. 

“ What ? ” she said, in a puzzled way, and read the words 
written on it : “I must see you; a matter of serious illness 
in your family” “ What ? ” she said, again, her eyes wi- 
dening. “ Tell him to come — send him up here! ” 

She was wide awake by the time he entered, sitting up in 
bed, a silk wrapper on her shoulders, a lace cap half cov- 
ering the curls of her hair ; unconscious alike of herself and 
her bewitching, sleep-flushed beauty, in anxiety and sur- 
prise. 

Burbidge observed her critically, appreciating the fact 
that the charm which could stand such test was charm in- 
deed, but not moved by it, nor yet by any special pity for 
her. 

“ It is too bad to force myself upon you at this hour,” 
he said, as he paused respectfully in the doorway, “ but my 
errand must be my apology. I bring you news — bad news, 
I fear.” 

“ Who ? ” she asked quickly. “ What is the matter ? ” 

“ Your little boy is ill, very seriously ill.” 

“Jack?” The big pupils of her eyes dilated. “What 
is it ? Why wasn’t I told ? ” 

“ It is pneumonia, I understand,” Burbidge answered. 
“ Miss Yarborough sent for you the day before yesterday, 
but unfortunately the message missed you. The doctors 


£88 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


regard the case as so far serious that, you not being at the 
address she had, I undertook to find you and give you the 
news in person. 

“What?” Maud cried. “Do you mean he is going to 
die ? — I must go at once ! ” 

She pushed aside the coverlet as if about to spring out of 
bed, oblivious of Burbidge’s presence, of everything but 
anxiety to be gone to the child. 

“ Ring, will you ? ” she said. “ Someone must come and 
pack for me. I have no maid here and I cannot stay to look 
after things. What time is there a train that’s any good? 
Do you know ? ” 

“Nine-fifty-five at the Nord,” he said; “it is not yet 
nine; you will have ample time, and should be in London 
soon after five. I hope it may prove I have alarmed you 
unnecessarily. Bailey spoke of the case as serious, not des- 
perate; I trust it may prove so. He is at Grange Hall, I 
understand.” 

She hardly attended. “ What doctors have they got ? ” 
she asked. “ Who did they send for? I suppose you don’t 
know, nor anything about the nurses ? Why wasn’t I 
there ? ” 

Burbidge did not suggest ; nor did he suggest that Violet 
would have done all in her power for the child. He did 
not overlook the fact that Maud, as absorbed in her grief 
as in her joys, clearly gave, no more thought to Violet and 
the burden put on her, than she did to the cause of it — her 
own absence and the past pleasure and possible future con- 
sequences of that. It is likely he set the one against the 
other and did not strike the balance even; he was never 
quite fair to Maud. But he was helpful to her now; he 
gave orders on her behalf and arranged for her journey, and 
saw to everything for her in the best way possible, himself 
waiting downstairs to see her off. 

There was one person who could have dispensed with that 


THE COST OF MAUD 


289 


last attention. Not Maud, she was too preoccupied to care 
who facilitated her departure so long as someone did ; but 
Ingram would have preferred the task should have fallen to 
him. He would, also, have preferred that Burbidge should 
have left the hotel, though, at the same time, he felt it only 
natural he should not do so until Maud did. 

“ Will he go with you ? ” he asked her in the few mo- 
ments he saw her before her departure. 

She had sent a pencilled note to his room, telling him that 
she had been sent for, and must go. And he had come as 
quickly as possible to her sitting-room, and waited, con- 
sumed with anxiety and impatience, pacing the room for the 
long while which elapsed before she came, her hat on, her 
veil in her hand. When she did come, her trouble and his 
sympathy and other emotions occupied them till it was al- 
most time for her to go. Someone knocked to warn her it 
was time, when he asked : “ Does Burbidge know I am 

here? ” 

“ No,” she told him, “ he did not speak of you. Yes, 
yes, I am coming — there is five minutes yet, or nearly — take 
the luggage.” 

She gave the order impatiently, and turned back to In- 
gram. 

“ I wish I could go with you,” he said ; “ at such a time, 
in such trouble, how can I let you go alone.” 

“ I wish you could,” she answered. “ I suppose it isn’t 
possible ? ” — for a moment she dwelt on it, but quickly per- 
ceived it impossible. “ There isn’t time ; you couldn’t any- 
how do it. Besides, perhaps it’s better not; it’s Graham 
Burbidge, not George, who is here.” 

“ How did he find you ? ” Ingram asked, better aware 
even than she of the difference between Graham Burbidge 
and his brother in the matter of judgment and the opinions 
they might form. “ How did he find you were here ? Will 
he go back with you ? ” 


290 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


She did not know ; she had not given either question con- 
sideration. “ I don’t see it matters,” she said. “ Oh, Cecil, 
supposing — supposing anything awful’s happened! Sup- 
posing I am too late ! ” 

“ You won’t be,” he assured her. “ It isn’t possible. 
The boy was not ill when you came away a few days ago 
— only a little chill. It isn’t possible.” 

“ You think not? ” She looked up, hope shining through 
the tears in her eyes. “ It’s very quick, pneumonia, isn’t it, 
sometimes ? ” 

He knew it was, and she did, but neither said so. 

“ It is not possible,” he repeated, and she accepted it as 
she had accepted what she wished to all through life. 

“ I don’t think I could bear it,” she said in a low voice, 
“ if he died while I was away here.” 

“He won’t!” he declared. “You cannot have to bear 
that — for me.” His voice dropped tenderly over the last, 
but she corrected him honestly. “ For my own pleasure,” 
she said with conviction. 

There came another knock at the door, and another re- 
minder that it was time to start — more than time. She 
could not deny it longer, and, with a word of farewell, hur- 
ried away, her veil still in her hand, tears in her eyes. 

Burbidge was waiting for her downstairs. “ It is too bad 
to hurry you like this,” he said. “ I know you cannot have 
finished your toilet without great inconvenience, but I dare 
not let you miss the train, you would never forgive me if I 
did.” 

“ No,” she said — “ no. I am ready. I can fasten this 
on the way to the station.” 

He drove to the station with her, and saw her into the 
train, but he did no more. He had come to Paris on busi- 
ness and, as he told her, it unfortunately prevented him 
from escorting her to England. When he had seen her off 
from the station he went to attend to his business. 


THE COST OF MAUD 


291 


The first of it took him back to the hotel they had lately 
left. There he made an inquiry, and discreetly paid for the 
answer. Acting upon it, he withdrew to an inconspicuous 
place not far off, and waited. After a while, not very long, 
Ingram came out of the hotel and walked slowly up the 
street. Burbidge gave him a start ; then, taking a by-way, 
followed it quickly till it joined the main street again ; about 
which point he had the happiness of meeting Ingram. 

Both expressed surprise, Ingram the more of the two. 
He also expressed pleasure at this chance encounter. 

“ When did you cross ? ” he inquired, as they fell into step 
together. “ Last night ? I crossed in the afternoon. I 
don’t do night travelling if I can help it on a holiday. Im 
on holiday now, off to Monte Carlo to-morrow.” 

“ Ah ? ” said Burbidge, and congratulated him on leaving 
an evil climate at an evil time of year. “ Are you here to- 
night?” he said. “Good, so am I. Where are you stay- 
ing?” 

Ingram told him. It was not the hotel from which he 
had issued ten minutes ago, but Burbidge did not remark on 
it. They spoke of hotels a little. Then Burbidge told of 
his errand to Maud, and the bad news he had brought her, 
and her hasty departure. 

Ingram expressed sympathy, as was natural ; also surprise 
to hear that she was in Paris, which was, perhaps, less natu- 
ral. But again Burbidge did not remark on it, merely men- 
tioned that they had not Maud’s Paris address at Grange 
Hall, but he had luckily chanced on her hotel, and said no 
more about it. In a little they parted, though not before 
they had arranged to lunch together. Burbidge proposed it, 
and Ingram agreed; he had seemed to enjoy the elder man’s 
company, and had himself been more talkative than usual. 
He readily agreed to the proposal for lunch, and a time and 
place were appointed before they parted. 

Burbidge devoted himself to various affairs which would 


292 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


not wait, and for a couple of hours transacted intricate busi- 
ness connected with some of his many schemes and ven- 
tures. He was not afraid Ingram would not keep the ap- 
pointment. Unless his judgment of men was entirely at 
fault, he would keep it with as much punctiliousness, if as 
little inclination, as he had ever kept one. 

His judgment was not at fault, Ingram was there to time. 
After commenting on each other’s punctuality, and the 
morning’s news, they sat down to table. Ingram was still 
a little talkative, ready to pursue pleasantly any subject — 
Monte Carlo, Africa, any thing that the other introduced. 
Burbidge spoke of politics in South Africa, and commercial 
ventures in Central and West, especially those connected 
with gold and rubber. Ingram listened with interest, asked 
intelligent questions and gave any points of information he 
could, with the readiness of a man not unwilling the con- 
versation should remain on such topics. 

“ Do you, by chance, happen to know anything of a com- 
pany calling itself the Central African Gold Syndicate?” 
he inquired once, when there were signs of such subjects 
being dropped in favour of something more personal. 

Burbidge told him he had a little interest in it. “ It 
hasn’t been worth much up till a few months ago,” he said, 
“ but it promises to look up now. Why do you ask ? ” 

“ I heard a rather odd thing about it the other day ; rather 
an unpleasant thing about their big gold find.” 

“ Ah ! ” Burbidge said. “ I believe they are telling some 
romances about that; at least, they told some beforehand. 
I was assured, quite soberly, the reason why the Syndicate 
worked at a loss so long was because of the adverse influ- 
ence of a deity who sat on the gold and desired to keep it 
sacred to himself — or his priests ! ” 

Ingram said he understood some such superstition ex- 
isted. “ So my correspondent says — he’s a missionary, a 
man I used to know at college, I believe quite a good sort, 


THE COST OF MAUD 


293 


though Fve not seen anything of him lately. I hadn't 
heard from him for a long time till, the other day when he 
wrote me about the Syndicate and their gold." 

“ Is that romance, too?" Burbidge inquired. “I hope 
not, I was assured the gold, at least, was solid fact." 

Ingram told him, so far as he knew, it was. “ But Mur- 
gatroyd says there is reason to believe it was not the Syndi- 
cate’s men who found it. They got wind of its whereabouts 
before they had any rights on the land; in fact, he says, 
they acquired that on information given by Fabrian, the 
Government official there." 

“ Is that so ? " Burbidge asked, with mild interest. 

“ So Murgatroyd says. It was reported to him by a con- 
vert that Fabrian, who appears to understand natives in 
quite an unusual degree, learnt the secret of the gold from 
some of them and did a deal with the Syndicate about it. 
Of course, one does not know if it is correct ; it is a serious 
thing if it is." 

“If it is officially reported and investigated?" Burbidge 
suggested. " I imagine it has not yet been ? " 

“ No," Ingram answered. He was quite at ease now, and 
explained the situation readily. “ Murgatroyd could not 
very well report officially, especially on the information he 
has; he mentioned the matter privately to me, so that I 
could put it in the way of being looked into." 

“ I would not do that if I were you," Burbidge advised. 

“ Why not ? " The question was merely politeness, for, 
before it could be answered, Ingram went on to explain — 
“ I should hardly be doing my duty if I did not." 

“ ’Em," Burbidge said. “ This Fabrian is an able man, 
isn’t he ? ’’ 

“ I know nothing about him beyond what Murgatroyd 
says," Ingram admitted. “ From that I gather— apart from 
the charge made against him — that he is a bit of an outsider, 
but has the trick of dealing with the natives." 


294 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ I know a good deal more about him than that,” Bur- 
bidge said, “ and I can assure you he is a man of exceptional 
ability, able to deal, not only with the natives, but also a dif- 
ficult situation as few men can. The situation in the dis- 
trict where he is, and where the field of the Gold Syndicate's 
operation lies, is extremely complicated. You can take my 
word for it if you like, or you can make inquiries for your- 
self ; you will find I am correct. I assure you Fabrian is a 
man neither the Government nor any other employer would 
be well advised to part with.” 

“ Indeed ? ” Ingram said coldly. He was a little sur- 
prised by this knowledge and interest, and not in the least 
influenced by the advice, except adversely. 

“ I am afraid I cannot agree with you,” he said; “ if the 
charge suggested against Fabrian has any truth in it, he is a 
man the Government can very well spare — in fact, has no 
use for. Personally, I must own, I, too, should have none 
for a man who ” 

“ Having found a good thing, made terms about it ? ” 
Burbidge suggested — “ With the Company who are pre- 
pared to deal with it, and use it to advantage? — instead of 
reporting it to headquarters, that the paper might be put in 
an official pigeon-hole for the rest of his natural life. I fail 
to see that Fabrian’s offence, always provided he has com- 
mitted it, is heinous.” 

“ Possibly not. Your view would naturally not be the of- 
ficial one. I am sorry, of course, if you are deeply inter- 
ested in the Syndicate.” 

“ I am interested in it and in Fabrian, who has served it 
well for some time — in a perfectly legitimate manner, what- 
ever he may have done more recently in any other. I pre- 
fer to stand by a man who has served me well, if it is pos- 
sible. I find it usually pays, and as a point of justice, I pre- 
fer it. I also prefer not to have trouble and talk in con- 
nection with any enterprise in which I am interested. But 


THE COST OF MAUD 


295 


don’t be sorry on my account. To tell the truth, I am 
rather sorry on yours, since it seems you regard this busi- 
ness seriously — breach of official regulations, contrary to 
accepted standards, a point of honour to investigate, and so 
on ; it makes it harder for you.” 

“ What harder? ” Ingram demanded. 

“ To forget.” 

He stared, then, half grasping the implied suggestion — 
“ I fear I do not understand you,” he said stiffly. 

“No?” Burbidge said. “You don’t forget? It’s con- 
venient sometimes. Now I have forgotten the hotel at 
which Lady Lassiter was staying, though I was there this 
morning; so late this morning as to have the pleasure of 
seeing you — on the step.” 

Ingram’s nostrils went white. “ What!” he said, before 
he was aware. 

Burbidge smiled faintly. He gave a small sign of ac- 
quiescence, as one who says, “ Yes, just so, you take me.” 

Ingram gripped the edge of the table. “ Do you insinu- 
ate ” he began, breathing short. 

But Burbidge interrupted. “ My dear fellow,” he said 
pleasantly, “ I insinuate nothing ; I have already told you, I 
have forgotten — and that I advise you to forget. There is 
really no point in remembering, still less in investigating, af- 
fairs which do not concern one, whether they have to do 
with ladies or missionaries.” 

“ It is a lie ! ” Ingram broke out fiercely. “ There is no 
grain of truth in the abominal insinuation ! ” 

Burbidge shrugged a little. “ What is one to think ? ” he 
asked helplessly. “ A lady leaves home, ostensibly to visit 
a friend at Melun. She does not arrive. She tells the 
friend she is staying in Paris with other friends (name un- 
mentioned), and tells her household nothing. She remains 
perdu for — how many days is it? A gentleman — pardon 
me, he can be proved to have been at the same hotel for 


296 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


those days, but he shows much surprise on hearing, from a 
third party, that the lady has been there, and gives his ad- 
dress at quite another hotel. Those, by the way, were mis- 
takes, an overdoing it I should not have expected of you. 
You would not have made them, I am sure, had you not 
been seriously off your balance. But, I ask, what is the 
natural interpretation to put on such proceedings ? ” 

“ It’s not true,” Ingram said, his face dark with impotent 
rage, and a pride that made him loathe the necessity of 
speech and explanation. “ Whatever it may look to you, it 
was perfectly innocent.” 

“ So ? ” said Burbidge, with faint interest, though whether 
in the statement as a fact, or as an effort of speech, did not 
appear. 

“ Do you think,” he inquired, “ that will be generally be- 
lieved? Do you think those who know the lady much less 
well than you do will realize — as you yourself did not when 
you made those careful arrangements a short time ago — 
that she has never been moved beyond platonics? You 
yourself did not know it then; you are not, in your heart, 
so convinced that it will always be so now as to have no 
hopes. Can you expect others to form that estimate, or 
give a lady, so fair and foolish, the benefit of the doubt? ” 

“ What they do or do not is not the point,” Ingram said 
disdainfully, controlling as well as he could the anger which 
leapt up afresh at the other’s words. “ The question is, do 
you? If not, I must convince you, and have done with the 
subject, which is nothing short of insufferable.” 

“ Don’t trouble — pray don’t trouble, if you feel like that 
about it,” Burbidge said. “ Don’t trouble anyhow, it really 
isn’t worth while, it is only a matter of words — forgive me, 
but you have only words to do it with, and they are never 
so conclusive to the hearer as to the speaker. And as I told 
you, I have forgotten — and advise you to forget.” 

There was an almost imperceptible emphasis on the last 


THE COST OF MAUD 297 

words which did not escape Ingram, preoccupied past much 
remembering of their earlier talk though he was. 

“ What do you mean ? ” he demanded. 

“ Simply that,” Burbidge answered ; “ one should forget 
what does not concern one ; the folly of charming ladies and 
the talk of well-meaning missionaries. I forget the one as 
I advise you to forget the other.” 

“If I forget the other?” Ingram said. “Is that it? 
You forget if I do. Is that your meaning? ” 

“ You put it crudely,” Burbidge answered. “ Still — the 
two are not unconnected in my mind.” 

Ingram’s wrath burst out. “ You scoundrel ! ” he said. 
“ You will blast an innocent woman’s reputation and spread 
abroad this slander unless I buy your silence with my ” 

“ My dear sir, my dear sir, a little moderation,” Bur- 
bidge interposed. “ Scoundrels and honours and reputa- 
tions are really out of place. It’s not your fault nor the 
lady’s if she has a reputation left to blast, while the hus- 
band’s honour and the scoundrel who had designs upon it, 
are melodramatic terms which might occur to the old-fash- 
ioned in connection with another than I in this story. Let 
us have done with the high moral tone and come to business. 
I am not asking the impossible of you. It is no matter of 
the betrayal of a Government secret affecting the rise of 
stock, or anything of that sort, no deviation from official 
duty. It is merely to forget the rumour conveyed in a pri- 
vate letter, and to give a well-meaning but tactless person 
the evidently needed advice to mind his own business. It is 
really wisdom on your part, no more.” 

“ It is blackmail ! ” 

“ Common sense,” Burbidge assured him. “ You don’t 
want Paris remembered — I don’t want your missionary 
friend’s rumour remembered. We will say, for the sake of 
argument, there is nothing seriously wrong in connection 
with either in the abstract — but in this world people will 


298 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


talk. We don't want these things talked about; we oblige 
each other." 

“ And if we don't?" 

“We do — I assure you we do. I have already done so — 
I have forgotten; you will speedily forget. You cannot af- 
ford to do anything else." 

Again there was almost imperceptible emphasis on the 
words. And Ingram, meeting the hard eyes, knew it true 
— he could not afford anything else since that was the price. 
And in the end he paid it; and, rightly or wrongly holding 
it dishonourable even while he did it, paid away some part 
of the best of himself with it. 


CHAPTER XVII 

MAUD GOES HOME— SO DOES VIOLET 


IVTAUD had a very rough crossing. She was a fairly 
good sailor as a rule, but this was too much for her, 
and for a while she forgot her anxiety and all else except 
her physical sensations. The boat was half an hour late 
at Dover, the afternoon bitterly cold and nearly dark when 
she landed. However, she was well looked after, a stal- 
wart fellow-passenger, much travelled and never sea-sick, 
put himself at her service, and several officials attended on 
her as it was her usual fate to be attended. They saved her 
all the trouble possible ; saw she had anything that could in- 
duce comfort in the circumstances, and left her, supplied 
with footwarmers and wrapped in her furs, in the corner 
of a -first-class carriage, feeling a trifle better, but still too 
spent to worry greatly. 

By degrees her splendid vitality reasserted itself ; she 
began to feel better physically, and also to view things men- 
tally in a less circumscribed and more moderate way than 
she had during the journey to Calais, and before sea-sick- 
ness overcame her. There had been no telegram for her at 
Dover, the fellow-passenger had made inquiries and assured 
her of that. She thought perhaps Violet would have des- 
patched one to say how Jack was, seeing that Burbidge had 
sent word she was coming by this boat. The boy was most 
likely better, and Violet, not realizing her anxiety, had not 
thought of sending to say so. The probability was the 
whole was rather more alarm on Violet’s part than any- 
thing really serious. She did not blame Violet for being 
alarmed, it was natural she should be so, only it had been 

299 


300 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


very distressing, and, as things happened, decidedly incon- 
venient too, to say the least of it. 

Her thoughts flew back to Burbidge and his coming; 
and the inquiry which Ingram had made recurred to her. 
How had he found her? She had not asked him herself; 
she had asked him really nothing which did not concern 
Jack and her getting home. And he had volunteered little 
— only that, as he was coming to Paris, Sam had asked him 
to take the news to her. Sam must have been to Grange 
Hall, then; he had occurred there somehow, and then pos- 
sibly gone to London and seen Burbidge. She did not 
trouble to think why. What she did think, with a flash of 
resentment, was that Sam might have come himself with 
the message. He should not have sent Burbidge, he cer- 
tainly should not. 

There was no disguising the fact — she saw it plainly now 
the slackening of her anxiety allowed her to think — Bur- 
bidge’s coming was awkward. He might think — several 
things; more especially if, in addition to the obscurity 
about her address, he, by bad luck, stumbled upon the 
fact that Ingram was in Paris. The affair had been 
innocent, as innocent as if Ingram had visited 
her at Grange Hall, though, of course, totally differ- 
ent — as champagne to a cup of tea, and tea at which 
Violet was a third party. Since Violet’s words about 
Ingram in the summer Maud had been extremely watchful 
with her. Violet at Grange Hall spoiled Ingram’s coming 
there and gave an uneasy feeling — not that she was doing 
wrong, Maud never thought about that, but that she must 
take precautions not to be found out, which irked her. Had 
Violet not been at Grange Hall, or had she herself still had 
the flat in Town to indulge herself with Ingram’s company 
away from the girl’s straight regarding eyes, she might not 
have been tempted to this — or she might. She did not 
argue with herself about it, or trouble about justifying it. 


MAUD GOES HOME 


301 


She recognized that she had done what some people might 
hold she ought not, because she wanted to ; and that, though 
it was, technically, innocent, it was open to grave miscon- 
struction ; and was liable to be misconstrued by a man of 
Burbidge’s type, did he happen upon enough of it. 

For a little she was disturbed about it; but not for long 
— worrying would not alter his opinion, and his opinion did 
not, after all, really matter greatly; if he misconstrued, he 
misconstrued; there was an end of it. It was not nice of 
course, but it could not be altered: mercifully he would not 
be likely to know enough to think anything definite. If by 
any chance he did happen to come across Ingram, Ingram 
would know how to deal with the situation. 

But there was no denying she had had an escape, a 
narrow one. If Burbidge had come on them together, what 
would he have thought? Or if, by any impossible chance, 
Ted had returned home unexpectedly and come to Paris 
himself for her! He would have believed in her of course 
—or would he not? Could she have made it clear to him 
how naturally all had come about ? She really had intended 
to go to Melun ; she had left home really with the idea of 
going, as she had told Ingram. It was quite unexpected 
and purely by accident that she met him in Paris. 

But it was not by accident he met her — he had known she 
was coming and had deliberately come to meet her, and she 
knew it. And though she had consented to stay in Paris 
with him, as she would had Susan Gainsworth proposed it 
or anyone else that she wanted to be with, she knew the con- 
sent was open to another hope if not construction on his 
part. And knew very well indeed that what was a danger- 
ous and exciting enjoyment to her, was something in- 
finitely more to him. Some words of Violet’s recurred — 
“ he cares very much,” “ it hurts so to care,” and “ it hardly 
seems fair.” 

It was not fair. She had risked her own reputation on 


302 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


those few days’ dangerous delight, they had been delight, 
exceeding anything she had known before, which was itself 
a danger. She had risked her reputation recklessly, hardly 
heeding that she did so, only now that it was safely over 
realizing the risk she ran. But he had put much more in it 
than that, heart and soul were in it for him, and the passion 
which cannot come to a man twice in life, for which he will 
give his very soul and honour — all were there for him, all 
stirred to the uttermost. And she knew it. He had shown 
her in June, whatever she had since pleased herself to for- 
get or deny; and knowing it she had done this thing; for 
her own pleasure fanned and not quenched the fire which 
might scorch her but was devouring him. 

She sat up in the corner of the carriage, her furs loosen- 
ing about her. “ I am a wicked woman ! ” she said, gazing 
fearfully into the dark. 

There was nothing but darkness without, and nothing but 
the empty lighted carriage about her. She glanced at her 
watch; it wanted five minutes to five; the train could not 
anyhow reach Charing Cross before half-past. The time 
seemed interminable. She began to wonder about Jack 
again, how he was, if it was really pneumonia, if the nurses 
were nice women, if Violet got them early enough. “ The 
doctor would have seen to that,” she cheered herself with 
thinking, and then wondered which day a nurse came, 
which day the boy was really ill, how long after she left, 
and why she went away when he was not well, why the 
doctor had not stopped her, why she, someone, had not real- 
ized it was going to be serious — a thousand tormenting 
questions which had no answers. 

At Charing Cross she inquired for a telegram; but again 
there was none. This time the fact aroused anxiety, in- 
stead of, as at Dover, allaying it. Leaving her baggage to 
itself, with scanty directions to put it in the cloak-room 
when found, she made what haste she could to St. Pancras, 


MAUD GOES HOME 


SOS 


and just succeeded in catching a train with a margin of two 
minutes to spare. But it was a slow train which stopped 
often; the journey seemed endless, part filled with anxiety, 
part with a confusion of other feelings which at times ob- 
literated it. She felt it had been years rather than hours 
since she set out from Paris, when at last the train drew into 
the station and she saw the lamps flickering in the wind, 
and Sam, pinched and cold, awaiting her on the platform. 

“ Sam ! ” she cried, and almost flung herself upon him, 
not noticing that he looked grave and old, in her relief at 
seeing someone to whom she could speak and speak freely, 
who would relieve her anxiety, restore the balance of the 
world and her shaken self. 

“ Thank God you’re here ! ” she cried. “ There’s some- 
one to tell me something at last! How is Jack?” 

“ Worse I’m afraid,” Sam said. “ Here, give me those 
things. Any luggage ? ” 

“ Worse ? What do you mean ? ” She let go the things 
she was holding, and stared at him. “ Answer me,” she 
said. “ Is he — very ill ? ” 

Sam nodded, avoiding her eyes, and led her through the 
station to the waiting car, the few porters about moving 
back with the respect shown to sorrow. 

Something in the movement, in a pitying glance seen in 
the unsteady lamplight, frightened Maud. She did not 
catch an impression easily, but she began to catch this. 

She peered into Sam’s face, as he stood aside for her to 
enter the car. “ Do you mean,” she said — ■“ do you mean 
he’s dead? ” 

Sam nodded. “ Yes, old girl,” he said very gently, and 
shut the door on them. 

The car moved away. It was the smaller one, and did 
not go so quietly or so easily as the big one ; there was some 
noise as it ran over the uneven pavement of the street. 
There was some noise in the street too — a few people pass- 


304 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


ing, shopping, attending to their affairs; this in the world 
without, while within, in the dark, Maud sat as one stunned. 
Jack was dead! The awful and unalterable, the unex- 
pected, had happened! He had died before she came! 
For the first time in her life catastrophe had overwhelmed 
her — one, not to be palliated, evaded, slipped from, for- 
gotten. For a little she sat cowering under the unprece- 
dented shock, crushed under it. Then she broke out into a 
paroxysm of grief and remorse, of self-abuse for her 
thoughtlessness, and unavailing regret that she had not been 
home in time to see the child once more. 

Sam did what he could to soothe her, afterwards assuring 
her that she could have done nothing had she been there, 
that neither she nor any could have saved the boy, that 
Violet had done everything possible. 

“ She’s not his mother ! ” Maud said, and Sam, feeling 
that unanswerable, said no more, but let her passion have 
way for a while. 

“ Why don’t you abuse me ? ” she asked him. “ Why 
don’t you tell me I’m a heartless brute ? ” 

“ Because I don’t think you are,” he answered. “ You’re 
— you’re Maud; you forget.” 

“And my child dies, and I’m away, and his father’s 
away ! Sam ” — there was consternation in the tone — •“ how 
am I to tell Ted? ” 

Sam did not answer for a moment ; then he said quietly : 
“ Ted will know; he will be home before you are.” 

“What!” 

She clutched his arm, she was much overwrought, in no 
condition for more shocks. “ What ? ” she said sharply. 
“Home? Now?” 

“ Yes,” Sam said, “ there was a telegram last night. He 
is coming by the express to Southfleet, the one that does not 
stop here ; the big car had gone to meet him — that’s why I 


MAUD GOES HOME 


305 


came in the small one for you. He will be home before 
this/’ 

“ Before this? ” Maud repeated. “ Before me? He will 
know ” 

“ Yes,” Sam said. “ He must, Violet will tell him.” 

“ Violet!” 

“ She will break it to him as well as she can, and — and 
you needn’t be afraid — she won’t give you away.” 

The last was said with hesitation, and had perhaps been 
wiser left unsaid, for it had the effect of overbalancing 
Maud’s tottering self-control. Her wrought-up feelings 
and over-strung nerves, little used to the strain of suffering, 
gave way. She turned upon him, as a creature goaded by 
pain it cannot combat turns upon the nearest inoffensive 
thing. 

“ Give me away as to what ? ” she demanded savagely. 
“ Why don’t you say what you suspect me of, what she sus- 
pects me of? Say it! I have been away, I don’t deny it; 
and no one knew where — except the acquaintance you sent 
to find me. You might have come yourself, I should have 
thought, if you had these suspicions ; it would have been 
more decent. I have been away, and I’m back, and my 
reputation’s gone! One expects that. But I can still face 
the music. I don’t need Violet ‘ not to give me away,’ or to 
lie to my husband for me. I can do my own lying if I 
want any, and I’ll thank Violet, and you too, to mind your 
own business, though I should be glad to know exactly with 
what you charge me. Speak ! What is it ? ” 

“ Nothing,” Sam said, when she waited for an answer. 

“ Nothing? ” she said scornfully. “ Rot ! I don’t believe 
it ! I know Violet thought I was with Cecil Ingram ; I sup- 
pose you did ? ” 

“ Not till it was too late to stop Burbidge’s inquiring for 
you.” 


306 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“ Oh ? You would have stopped him if you had thought 
in time? For the sake of the family you would have done 
that, I suppose; being dead sure, of course, that, if found, 
I should be found guilty.” 

“ You don’t suppose anything of the kind. You know I 
know you are not guilty.” 

“ What then ? What do you think ? ” 

He did not answer; but when she repeated the question 
insistently, he said again sadly, as he had said earlier: 
“ That you’re Maud — and somewhat costly. One who for- 
gets, and makes others forget, who means no harm, but 
does it — by Heaven! does do it. Just Maud — one cannot 
judge.” 

“ Sam,” her voice quivered a little. “ Sam, do you mean 
that?” 

“ Of course,” he anwered ; “ haven’t I always known 
you ? ” 

Then she broke down, her anger going as suddenly as it 
came, and self-reproach as extreme taking its place. Sam 
did not combat it or try to console her ; he realized that her 
word and all it contained was disrupted for the time at least 
and as it had never been before. 

“ I’m a wicked woman,” so she summed up at last. 
“ Yes, I am. I knew what I was doing, what I was playing 
with, and I still did it ; I knew, but I never gave a thought 
to the cost. You were right when you said I was costly. 
This has cost enough, God knows ! I’ve wronged my hus- 
band, in mind if not in fact — I have ! He’s no more to me 
than twenty men, not so much as one! I’ve neglected my 
child. Oh, it’s not my neglect that has caused his death — 
of course not; but I have neglected him all the same! I 
loved him — -yes, and ordered that he should have what he 
ought, but I’ve neglected him all the same. I’ve forgotten 
his very existence three-quarters of the time, and now he’s 
dead! And Ted — Ted is waiting at home, thinking me an 


MAUD GOES HOME 307 

angel still, I suppose. Well, there’ll soon be an end of 
that f ” 

“ I’m not so sure,” Sam said. “ I’m not sure you won't 
always show in celestial light for him.” 

“ I ? ” she cried. “ I shan’t ! I shall tell him every- 
thing ! ” 

“ Don’t tell more than everything,” Sam advised, “ as you 
have me. He hasn’t known you so long as I have, and he 
might not understand. In the first shock he might believe 
it, and think you were a devil when you called yourself one, 
and it would hurt him abominably. If he persists in your 
wearing a halo, it might perhaps be kinder to wear it, even 
if it doesn’t fit very well. I’m not sure that mightn’t be 
part of the punishment for sin, that wearing a halo that 
doesn’t fit and having to go carefully so as to keep it on.” 

She turned to him, though whether in consternation or 
contradiction he did not know, for at that moment the car 
entered the gates and a new wave of feeling swept over her, 
as she realized afresh to what she was coming home. 

“ I can’t face it ! ” she cried in sudden panic, as the front 
of the house was approached. “ I can’t — I can’t ! Let me 
get out ! Let me go away and never come back again ! ” 

She made a movement almost as if she would have opened 
the door. 

Sam put a hand on her arm. “ Steady,” he said. 
“ Steady ! You’ll get through with it. You’re not a cow- 
ard.” He held her arm a moment with a firm light 
touch, such as he would have used to a horse in deadly fear. 
“ You wouldn’t be cad enough to leave Ted alone in this,” 
he said. 

She fetched her breath short and with difficulty: 
“ No ” she answered, but for a moment, while a serv- 

ant opened the door of the car, she clung to him. 

“ That’s right,” he said, as she moved to get out, “you’re 
all right. God help you ” 


308 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


She stepped out, her lips set, her hands clenched, beauty 
gone from her haggard face. 

Lassiter came down the steps to meet her, his eyes red 
with obvious weeping, his feet stumbling in his haste, his 
hands outstretched. 

“ Maud ! ” he cried, reaching her before she was fairly 
free of the car. “ Oh, Maud, my darling ! ” and he took her 
in his arms oblivious of everyone, saying words of comfort 
and soothing, as to one whose grief is beyond sympathy or 
complete comprehension. 

“ I can’t make up to you for the boy,” Sam heard him 
say, “ nothing on earth can, I know, but I will try ” 

She did not answer, but over her husband’s shoulder her 
eyes met Sam’s, and from her face he knew that the punish- 
ment of the halo which did not fit had begun. 

They went upstairs together, up the wide flight, across 
the landing; perhaps to the nursery wing. Sam did not 
know ; he went into the dining-room, to a belated dinner for 
which he had not much appetite. 

“ I feel as if I had been sitting under Niagara,” he said 
to Violet, when she came to him, “ sometimes running hot 
and sometimes cold. It’s a weary world, Jane.” 

She nodded. She looked white and tired, though scarcely 
more tired than he did. She did not ask what Maud had 
said or how she had taken the blow, she felt she had no 
right to inquire, and he did not tell her. They sat a while 
in silence or talking intermittently of the happenings of the 
last hours, but their thoughts were with the two who had 
gone up to their dead child’s room, more especially with 
Maud ; at least, Sam’s were with her. 

By-an-by Violet was sent for to go upstairs. So far she 
had not seen Maud; she had remained in the background 
at her entrance, and since then Maud had been with her 
husband. Now, however, she was sent for, at Lassiter’s 
suggestion, that she might tell Maud what she had told him 


MAUD GOES HOME S09 

of Jack’s death and illness and other details, which the 
mother would desire to hear. 

Maud was sitting by the fire in her room when Violet 
entered, Lassiter beside her, his hand on one of hers which 
rested on the arm of the chair. She looked round as 
Violet entered, for a second meeting her eyes; then she 
turned a little, avoiding them. 

The words of sympathy, difficultly coming, died unspoken 
on Violet’s lips. She wanted to say some little part of the 
grief she felt for the sorrow she had not been able to pre- 
vent. But she could not; something in Maud froze her. 
And Maud, in spite of self-reproach and contrition and all 
the other emotions which had possessed her, shrank from 
Violet as one repelled and repellent. Sam knew all and 
half-condemned her, and she had found relief in it ; her hus- 
band did not know, and she only wished, even if he con- 
demned, that he might; but that Violet should, as she did, 
was unendurable even though there was no sign of con- 
demnation; it was unbearable, in some way unforgivable. 
She turned from the girl, and, while deeply sensible of what 
she had done, if not of what she had suffered, on her behalf, 
felt a shrinking which was almost repulsion for her. It 
was not her fault and not Violet’s, but it was so and it was 
unalterable, there was a barrier between them which would 
never be broken or passed. 

The words died on Violet’s lips; she came in and sat 
down shyly, asking if she should order Maud some dinner. 

“ No, thank you,” Maud said ; “ they will bring me some- 
thing by-and-by. I want you to tell me everything now.” 

Violet told as well as she could, but briefly and barely, 
more answering questions put than pouring out sympathetic 
information as one woman to another bereaved. Once or 
twice, by an effort, or prompted by something Lassiter said, 
her words came warmer and fuller. But each time she was 
halted by some question — “ Why was that done? ” “ Why 


310 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


wasn’t so-and-so sent for?” — put with the quickness which 
came of Maud’s eagerness in all things, but which checked 
any outpouring even if it did not actually hurt by implied 
criticism. Maud herself did not realize that she might 
sound critical, she had no intention of being so ; indeed, she 
thanked Violet for what she had done. Rather awkwardly, 
it must be admitted, but the situation was awkward be- 
tween them. The opportune arrival of a tray with food 
was something of a relief as putting an end to it. 

Violet rose to go, but Lassiter pressed her to stay. “ Tell 
us something more,” he said. “ Maud wants to hear every- 
thing. Here, have some champagne; you look as if you 
wanted it.” 

He took up the bottle which had been brought on the 
tray, and Maud, looking at Violet, noted her tired face. 

“ Were you up last night? ” she said. “ Yes? And part 
of the night before? Up because my child was ill” — she 
said the words slowly as if to herself. “ Ted,” stie turned 
to her husband, “ do you know, I have never been up one 
night in my life because someone was ill? I have been up 
all night for a dance, or for something I wanted to, more 
than once, but for sorrow or anxiety — no, never.” 

“ I hope you never will ! ” he said. “ You shan’t if I can 
prevent it ! ” He took her hand, leaving the champagne 
unopened. “ I’d never have anything hurt you, if I could 
help it,” he said tenderly. 

“ I ought to be hurt,” she said. 

He drew’ her to him, thinking only of the sorrow of the 
present. “ I wish I could bear it for you,” he said remorse- 
fully. “ And I wasn’t even the one to break it to you ! By 
Jove! I’d have given something if I could have anyhow 
been back in time to be with you then ! ” 

She made a little movement, and he bent over her. 
“ You’ve got me now,” he said, “ if that’s any good to 
you.” 


MAUD GOES HOME 


311 


She did not answer, and Violet, forgotten, slipped quietly 
from the room. 

“ We have got each other, Ted,” she heard Maud say in 
a quiet voice, as she closed the door. 

They had each other. It was right and well they should 
have; she was very glad, although she felt there was some- 
thing, only half understood, which was sad in it. They 
had each other; but she was alone. Their grief was for 
each other, far more than for the child who had not yet 
played a great part in their lives — who had been almost the 
greatest part of her life for nearly a year. For all those 
long months, ever since she came back from Germany, he 
had been the best part of life to her; and now he was gone, 
and she was alone. 

She stood a moment on the landing. In the room she had 
left, husband and wife were absorbed — the one in sympathy ; 
the other, maybe in sympathy, maybe contrition, but ab- 
sorbed. Downstairs Sam, worn with the burden of their 
trouble, was thinking of them, or rather of Maud, his old 
friend. Even Sam had no room for her to-night, his 
thoughts were with Maud and the strait place to which she 
had come. Affairs, not of death, but of life, in which she 
had no part weighed on him and preoccupied him, the one 
who had never failed her before. In all the house she was 
alone. She crept into the nursery and sat down on the old 
sofa. 

Th room was not quite dark, though very nearly ; the fire, 
which had been lighted for the benefit of the nurses, was 
almost out now, there was only a glow which showed low 
objects indistinctly. She saw the stand of the rocking- 
horse and some lesson-books which had fallen to the floor. 
There would be no more lessons and no more play; no 
sound of the childish voice, no clinging hand, no racing 
feet; no more of the self-found duties which had given 
purpose and use to her days. There was no use or purpose 
in her days now ; no one who called for her presence, no 


312 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


one who noticed her absence ; no reason why she should be 
here — be anywhere. 

She threw out a hand, grasping the sofa-arm as if to hold 
to something, no matter how poor, in the overwhelming 
desolation. Her fingers came in contact with something 
cold and moist. Only a fragment of damp sponge dropped 
and left there by accident, in the general disorganization of 
the household; but for the moment she thought it was a 
dog’s nose touching her — Punch’s nose. Punch come to her 
now as he came when her father, the first child of her re- 
sponsibility, died. 

“ Punch ! ” she said with a little gasp, and then she re- 
membered. It was not Punch ; he, too, was dead. 
“ Punch ! ” she said despairingly, and putting her head 
down on the sofa-arm, burst into tears. 

There was a step outside. She did not hear it, she was 
crying quietly but hopelessly, heeding and hearing nothing. 

Sam pushed the door open and came in. 

“ Jane! ” he said. 

She lifted her head, suppressing her sobs. 

“ Jlane, you’re crying.” 

“ No — o,” she said. “ At least, I have been ; but I’ve left 
off now.” 

“ Have you ? ” he said, and sat down on the sofa beside 
her. 

“ Yes,” she answered, and then suddenly began again. 
“ I — thought it — it was — Punch,” she explained brokenly. 
“ There is something here, a sponge, I think, and it touched 
me, and I thought it was Punch, come to meet me as he did 
when father died. I forgot for a minute that he was dead.” 

“ And so you cried ? ” 

“ Yes. It was very silly — to cry for a dog who’s been 
dead — a long time, but — but I couldn’t help it.” 

“ No,” said Sam. “ It doesn’t strike me as very silly. 


MAUD GOES HOME 


813 


It wouldn’t strike me as particularly silly even if you hadn’t 
anything else to cry for as well.” 

Encouraged by which she cried afresh, very thoroughly 
and without any pretence about it. Sam put an arm about 
her, and for a little she sobbed unreservedly with her head 
on his shoulder. And then, as unreservedly told her 
trouble, speaking freely, as she would not have done in day- 
light, confessing all she had striven to hide of her past un- 
happiness and present loneliness, the difficulties of her life 
and the future which stretched blank and hopeless before. 

“ I can’t bear it,” she said at the end. “ I’m a coward, I 
know I am ; but I feel as if I can’t bear any more ! ” 

“ No,” Sam answered gravely. “ I think not. I think 
you have borne enough.” 

“ You see, Jack’s dead,” she said weakly. “ If it wasn’t 
for that — but he is, and I can’t — I can’t go on here ! ” 

“ No,” Sam answered again, “ I think not. I think the 
time’s come to move on. Cuddy did not mean you to stay 
here indefinitely ; I know he didn’t. Long before he handed 
you over to Maud he asked me to look after you. He said 
he knew you’d be very lonely some time when he was gone, 
and I must cheer you. I think that time’s now. I am 
going to take you away.” 

She sat up, but not withdrawing from his arm. “ Will 
you?” she cried softly. “Will you? Can you? Won’t it 
be a great bother to you ? ” 

“ Bother ! ” Sam said with vehemence, more vehemence 
than he knew. “ It is the one thing in all the world I want 
to do! We’ll go away, we’ll go to Countershell, and we’ll 
stay there, you and I together for good and all — and we’ll 
keep hens.” 

“ Samuel ! ” the voice had a low thrill which might have 
warned him had he not his head full of the thought of hir- 
ing Mrs. Grundy at a small fixed salary. 


314 CUDDY YARBOROUGH’S DAUGHTER 


“Do you mean that?” she asked softly, incredulously, 
but incredulously happy. “You will take me away?” 

“ And never let you go ! ” he vowed, tightening the grip 
of his arm. 

“ Sam ! ” her head was on his shoulder again. “ Do you 
— do you really care ? ” she whispered, her lips close to his 
ear. 

And Sam was as one petrified. He did care above every- 
thing on earth, but he had not had the slightest intention of 
saying so ; no idea, until that moment, that she could so in- 
terpret his words, still less that she would now or ever wish 
to do so. 

“ I prayed and I prayed that you would,” she confessed. 
“ I’ve prayed every night that — that it might be, that some 
day you might care enough to — to marry me. Was it very 
fast, do you think? I thought so sometimes, but still I did 
it ; and it seemed such an enormous thing to ask for, but still 
I asked it. And now — and now it has happened ! Samuel, 
do you think I ought to have it ? Do you think it’s fair ? ” 

Sam had some suspicion that it was not quite, though his 
suspicions concerned a man no longer young and a girl in 
youthful inexperience ; not that same girl and her prayers. 

But he was merely human, so he said : “ We’ll risk that 

since the good God has sent it, Jane; we’ll say ‘ thank you ’ 
and * Amen,’ ” and he kissed her. 

And so Violet came back to Countershell. But to her 
own house, not Sam’s, for Graham Burbidge claimed the 
fulfilment of his promise. When, as he foresaw, Violet re- 
fused to accept the house from Sam even as a husband’s 
gift, saying she would rather it was his than hers, Bur- 
bidge reminded him of the promise of the option to pur- 
chase and bought it for the wedding present he planned. 
So Countershell was Violet’s once more, in name, if not 
entirely in fact. But it did not matter whose it was called ; 


MAUD GOES HOME 


315 


she was there and Sam was there, back in the old house, 
and if not in the old days then in new ones which had a 
greater and sweeter happiness in them, not lessened by the 
little touches of glamour and of sadness from the past. 

And they kept hens, as Sam said they would, and did not 
make a fortune — it would, he maintained, have been very 
inconvenient if they had, as they would have felt it their 
duty to spend it or do something becoming the position. 
As it was, they had no responsibilities, beyond those of the 
average man who is born his brother’s keeper. Mr. George 
Burbidge had repaired and rebuilt and redrained the vil- 
lage which now called him landlord, though, it must be ad- 
mitted, regarded Violet still as 4 lady,’ in the old pig-headed 
way which recognizes purchase less than some older ties. 
Mrs. George Burbidge did not in the least resent that; the 
only thing she did a little resent was that Graham Burbidge 
went to Countershell more often than he did to Oaklands, 
although she was convinced the cook there was not qualified 
to be kitchen maid to her own, and the house, she knew, 
was not steam-heated throughout. 

Maud did not go to Countershell at all. 


THE END 


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